THE  GREEN  BOUGH 
E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON 


Books  By  E.  Temple  Thurston 

The  Green  Bough 

The  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense 

The  World  of  Wonderful  Reality 

Enchantment 

The  Five-Barred  Gate 

The  Passionate  Crime 

Achievement 

Richard  Furlong 

The  Antagonists 

The  Open  Window 

The  Apple  of  Eden 

Traffic 

The  Realist 

The  Evolution  of  Katherine 

Mirage 

Sally  Bishop 

The  Greatest  Wish  in  the  World 

The  Patchwork  Papers 

The  Garden  of  Resurrection 

The  Flower  of  Gloster 

Thirteen 

iSo-E 


THE 

GREEN    BOUGH 


BY 

E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON 

AWTHOK  OF  "THK  CITY  OP  BEAUTIFUL  NONSHNSB," 
"TUX  WORLD  OF  WONDERFUL  REALITT,"  BTC. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  MCMXXI 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN    THB   UNITED    STATES    O»   AMERICA 


TO 
E.  F.  COWLIN 


2227798 


PHASE  I 


THE  life  of  Mary  Throgmorton,  viewed  as  one 
would  scan  the  chronicles  of  history,  imper- 
sonally, without  regard  to  the  conventions,  is 
the  life  of  a  woman  no  more  than  fulfilled  in  the  ele- 
ments of  her  being. 

All  women  would  be  as  Mary  Throgmorton  if  they 
dared.  All  women  would  love  as  Mary  Throgmorton 
loved  —  suffer  as  she  suffered.  Perhaps  not  all  might 
yield,  as  she  yielded  towards  the  end;  not  all  might 
make  her  sacrifices.  But,  in  the  latitudinous  perspec- 
tive of  Time  where  everything  vanishes  to  the  point 
of  due  proportion,  she  must  range  with  that  vast  army 
of  women  who  have  hungered,  loved,  been  fed  and 
paid  the  reckoning  with  the  tears  out  of  their  eyes 
and  the  very  blood  out  of  their  hearts. 

It  is  only  when  she  comes  to  be  observed  in  the 
immediate  and  narrow  surroundings  of  her  circum- 
stance that  her  life  stands  out  tragically  apart.  She 
becomes  then  as  a  monument,  set  up  on  a  high  and 
lonely  hill  amongst  the  many  of  those  hills  in  drowsy 
Devon,  a  monument,  silently  claiming  the  birthright 
of  all  women  which  the  laws  men  make  by  force  have 
so  ungenerously  circumscribed. 

There  is  no  woman  who  could  look  at  that  monu- 

3 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

ment  without  secret  emotions  of  a  deep  respect,  while 
there  were  many  in  her  lifetime  who  spurned  Mary 
Throgmorton  with  tongue  and  with  a  glance  of  eye, 
and  still  would  spurn  her  to-day  in  the  narrow  streets 
where  it  is  their  wont  to  walk. 

The  respect  of  one's  neighbors  is  a  comforting  thing 
to  live  with,  but  it  is  mostly  the  little  people  who  earn 
it  and  find  the  pleasure  of  its  warmth.  The  respect  of 
the  world  is  won  often  by  suffering  and  in  the  wild 
and  open  spaces  of  the  earth.  It  was  on  Gethsemane 
and  not  in  Bethlehem  that  Christianity  revealed  its 
light. 

In  Bridnorth,  the  name  of  Mary  Throgmorton  was 
a  byword  for  many  a  day.  They  would  have  erased 
her  from  their  memory  if  they  could.  It  was  in  the 
hush  of  voices  they  spoke  of  her  —  that  hush  with 
which  women  muffle  and  conceal  the  envy  beneath  their 
spite. 

No  one  woman  in  Bridnorth,  unless  it  was  Fanny 
Throgmorton,  the  third  of  her  three  sisters,  could  have 
had  honesty  enough  in  her  heart  to  confess,  even  in 
silence,  her  real  regard  for  Mary. 

Who  should  blame  them  for  this?  The  laws  had 
made  them  and  what  is  made  in  a  shapen  mold  can 
bend  neither  to  the  left  nor  to  the  right.  They  were 
too  close  to  her  to  see  her  beauty;  all  too  personally 
involved  to  look  dispassionately  at  the  greatness  of  her 
soul. 

Yet  there  in  spirit,  as  it  were  some  graven  monument 
upon  those  hills  of  Devon,  she  stands,  a  figure  of 

4 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

tragic  nobility.  Had  indeed  they  carved  her  in  stone 
and  set  her  there  upon  the  hills  that  overlooked  the 
sea,  they  would  have  recognized  then  in  her  broad 
brow,  in  the  straight  direction  of  her  eyes,  the  big,  if 
not  beautiful  then  generous  line  of  her  lips,  the  full 
firm  curve  of  her  breasts,  how  fine  a  mate  she  must 
have  made,  how  strong  a  mother  even  in  the  weakest 
hour  of  her  travail. 

Stone  truly  would  have  been  the  medium  for  her. 
It  was  not  in  color  that  she  claimed  the  eye.  The  fair 
hair,  neither  quite  golden  nor  quite  brown,  that  clear, 
healthy  skin,  neither  warmed  with  her  blood  nor  in- 
terestingly pale,  these  would  have  franked  her  passage 
in  a  crowd  and  none  might  have  noticed  her  go  by. 

There  on  the  rising  of  that  cliff  in  imagination  is  the 
place  to  see  her  with  the  full  sweep  of  Bridnorth  bay 
and  that  wide  open  sea  below  and  all  the  heathered 
stretches  of  the  moors  behind  her.  There,  had  they 
carved-  a  statue  for  her  in  rough  stone,  you  must  have 
seen  at  once  the  beauty  that  she  had. 

But  because  it  was  in  stone  her  beauty  lay  and  not 
in  pink  white  flesh  that  makes  a  fool  of  many  a  man, 
they  had  the  less  of  mercy  for  her.  Because  it  was  in 
stone,  man  found  her  cold  of  touch  and  stood  away. 
And  yet  again  because  it  was  in  stone,  once  molten 
with  the  heat  of  life,  there  was  no  hand  in  little  Brid- 
porth  that  could  have  stayed  her  fate. 

Once  stirred,  the  little  pettiness  of  Bridnorth  folk 
charred  all  like  shavings  from  the  plane  at  touch  of 
her.  Once  stirred,  she  had  in  her  passion  to  defy 

5 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

them  every  one.  Once  stirred,  herself  could  raise  that 
monument  to  the  birthright  of  women  which,  in  fancy, 
as  her  tale  is  read,  will  be  seen  there  over  Bridnorth 
on  the  high  cliff's  edge. 


II 

HANNAH,  Jane,  Fanny  and  Mary,  these 
were  the  four  sisters  of  the  Throgmorton 
family  in  the  order  of  their  respective  ages. 
A  brother  they  had,  but  he  comes  into  no  part  of  this 
history.  The  world  had  taken  him  when  he  was 
twenty-three.  He  left  Bridnorth,  the  mere  speck  upon 
the  map  it  was  and,  with  the  wide  affairs  of  life  at  his 
touch,  the  mere  speck  it  became  in  his  memory. 
Stray  letters  reached  Mary,  his  favorite  sister.  Read 
aloud  at  the  breakfast  table,  they  came,  bringing 
strange  odors  of  the  world  to  those  four  girls.  Vague 
emotions  they  experienced  as  they  heard  these  infre- 
quent accounts  of  where  he  was  and  what  he  did. 

Silently  Fanny's  imagination  would  carry  her  to  the 
far  places  he  wrote  of.  Into  the  big  eyes  she  had 
would  rise  a  haze  of  distance  across  which  an  un- 
trained vision  had  power  vaguely  to  transport  her. 
Hannah  listened  in  a  childish  wonder.  Jane  made  her 
sharp  comments.  It  was  Mary  who  said  — 

"  Why  do  men  have  the  real  best  of  it?  He'll  never 
come  back  to  Bridnorth  again." 

He  never  did  come  back.  From  the  time  their 
father  and  mother  died  they  lived  in  Bridnorth  alone. 

Theirs  was  the  square,  white  early  Victorian  house 

7 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

in  the  middle  of  the  village  through  which  the  coach 
road  runs  from  Abbotscombe  to  King's  Tracey. 

That  early  Victorian  house,  the  furniture  it  con- 
tained, the  narrow  strip  of  garden  in  front  protected 
from  the  road  by  low  iron  palings  so  that  all  who 
passed  could  see  in  the  front  windows,  the  unusually 
large  garden  at  the  back  surrounded  by  a  high  brick 
wall,  all  these  composed  the  immediate  atmosphere  in 
which  Mary  and  her  three  sisters  had  been  brought  up 
from  childhood. 

It  must  be  supposed  that  that  condition  of  being 
overlooked  through  the  front  windows  was  not  with- 
out its  effect  upon  their  lives.  If  it  takes  all  sorts  to 
make  a  world,  it  is  all  the  variety  of  conditions  that  go 
to  make  such  sorts  as  there  are.  For  it  was  not  only 
the  passers-by  who  looked  in  at  the  Throgmorton  win- 
dows and  could  have  told  to  a  fraction  of  time  when 
they  had  their  meals,  when  Hannah  was  giving  lessons 
to  the  children  she  taught,  those  hours  that  Fanny  was 
sitting  alone  in  her  bedroom  writing  her  verses  of 
poetry.  Also  it  was  the  Throgmorton  girls  them- 
selves who  preferred  the  occupation  of  the  rooms 
fronting  the  road  to  those  whose  windows  overlooked 
the  shady  and  secluded  garden  at  the  back. 

This  was  the  attraction  of  the  stream  for  those  who 
walk  in  quiet  meadows.  There  on  the  banks  you  will 
find  the  footpath  of  the  many  who  have  passed  that 
way.  They  sat  at  those  front  windows,  sewing,  read- 
ing, often  writing  their  letters  on  blotting  pads  upon 
their  laps,  scarcely  conscious  that  the  li-ttle  filtering 

8 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

stream  of  life  in  Bridnorth  drew  them  there.  For 
had  they  been  questioned  on  these  matters,  one  and  all, 
severally  or  together  they  would  have  laughed,  saying 
that  for  the  greater  half  of  the  year  there  was  no  life 
in  Bridnorth  to  pass  by,  and  certainly  none  that  con- 
cerned them. 

Nevertheless  it  was  the  stream,  however  lightly  they 
may  have  turned  the  suggestion  away.  The  passing 
of  the  postman,  of  the  Vicar  or  the  Vicar's  wife,  these 
were  the  movements  of  life,  such  as  you  see  in  a 
meadow  stream  and  follow,  dreaming  in  your  mind,  as 
they  catch  in  the  eddies  and  are  whirled  and  twisted 
out  of  sight.  So  they  had  dreamt  in  their  minds,  in 
Bridnorth,  these  Throgmorton  girls.  So  Mary  had 
dreamed  the  twenty  years  and  more  that  dreams  had 
come  to  her. 

For  the  greater  half  of  the  year,  they  might  have 
said  there  was  no  life  in  Bridnorth.  But  from  late 
Spring  through  Summer  to  the  Autumn  months  they 
must  have  claimed  with  pride  that  their  Devon  village 
had  a  life  of  its  own.  The  old  coach  with  its  four 
horses,  beating  out  the  journey  from  Abbotscombe  to 
King's  Tracey,  brought  visitors  from  all  parts;  gen- 
erally the  same  every  year.  For  a  few  months  they 
leased  whatever  furnished  houses  there  were  to  be  had, 
coming  regularly  every  season  for  the  joy  of  that  quiet 
place  by  the  sea  where  there  was  a  sandy  beach  to 
bathe  on,  and  lonely  cliffs  on  which  to  wander  their 
holidays  away. 

So  the  Throgmorton  girls  made  friends  with  some 

9 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

whose  lives  lay  far  outside  the  meadows  through  which 
the  Bridnorth  stream  flowed  peacefully  between  its 
banks.  To  these  friends  sometimes  they  paid  visits 
when  the  Summer  was  passed.  They  went  out  of  Brid- 
north themselves  by  the  old  coach,  later  returning,  like 
pigeons  homing,  with  the  wind  of  the  outside  world 
still  in  their  wing  feathers,  restless  for  days  until  the 
dreams  came  back  again.  Then  once  more  it  seemed 
a  part  of  life  to  sit  at  the  window  sewing  and  watch 
the  postman  go  by. 

There  were  regular  visitors  who  came  every  sum- 
mer, renewing  their  claim  from  year  to  year  upon  the 
few  houses  that  were  to  be  let,  so  that  there  was  little 
available  accommodation  of  that  nature  for  any  out- 
siders. They  called  Bridnorth  theirs,  and  kept  it  to 
themselves.  But  every  year,  they  had  their  different 
friends  to  stay  with  them  and  always  there  was  the 
White  Hart,  where  strangers  could  secure  rooms  by 
the  day  or  the  week  all  through  the  season. 

The  Bridnorth  stream  was  in  flood  those  days  of 
the  late  Spring  where  every  afternoon  the  coach  came 
rumbling  up  the  hill  past  the  Throgmortons'  house  to 
set  down  its  passengers  at  the  hotel  only  a  little  farther 
up  the  road. 

Like  the  Severn  bore  it  was,  for  coming  from  Ab- 
botscombe  down  the  winding  road  that  had  risen  with 
the  eminence  of  the  cliffs,  the  coach  could  be  seen  de- 
scending by  twists  and  turns  and  serpentine  progres- 
sions to  the  bottom  of  Bridnorth  village,  crossing  the 
bridge  that  spans  the  little  river  Watchett  and  climbing 

10 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

again  with  the  contour  of  the  cliffs  once  more  on  its 
way  to  King's  Tracey. 

Leaning  far  out  of  one  of  the  upper  windows  of  the 
square,  white  house  or  standing  even  at  the  gate  in  the 
iron  paling,  the  little  cloud  of  dust  or,  in  rainy  weather, 
the  black  speck  moving  slowly  like  a  fly  crawling  down 
a  suspended  thread  of  cotton,  could  easily  be  seen  two 
miles  away  heralding  the  coming  of  the  coach. 

She  who  leant  out  of  the  window  might  certainly 
retire,  closing  it  slowly  as  the  coach  drew  near.  She 
who  stood  at  the  gate  in  the  iron  palings  might  return 
casually  into  the  house.  But  once  they  were  out  of 
sight  of  those  on  the  other  bank  of  the  Bridnorth 
stream,  there  would  be  voices  crying  through  the  rooms 
that  the  coach  was  coming. 

Thus,  as  it  passed,  there  might  four  figures  be  seen 
at  different  windows,  who,  however  engrossing  their 
occupations,  would  look  out  with  confessions  of  mild 
interest  at  the  sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs  on  the  stony 
road,  at  the  rattle  of  harness,  the  rumbling  of  wheels 
and,  casually,  at  the  passengers  come  to  Bridnorth. 

Any  visitor  catching  sight  of  these  temperate 
glances  from  his  box  seat  on  the  coach  might  have  sup- 
posed the  eyes  that  offered  them  were  so  well-used  to 
that  daily  arrival  as  to  find  but  little  entertainment  in 
the  event.  From  their  apparent  indifference,  he  would 
never  have  believed  that  even  their  hearts  had  added  a 
pulse  in  the  beating,  or  that  to  one  at  least  that  coach 
was  the  vehicle  of  Fate  which  any  day  might  bring  the 
burden  of  her  destiny. 


Ill 

IT  is  by  the  ages  of  these  four  they  can  most  easily 
and  comprehensively  be  classified ;  yet  the  age  of 
one  at  least  of  them  was  never  known,  or  ever 
asked  in  Bridnorth. 

Hannah  might  have  been  forty  or  more.  She  might 
well  have  been  less.  But  the  hair  was  gray  on  her  head 
and  she  took  no  pains  to  conceal  it.  Hers,  if  any,  was 
the  contented  soul  in  that  household.  With  her  it  was 
not  so  much  that  she  had  given  up  the  hope  that  every 
woman  has,  as  that  before  she  knew  what  life  might  be, 
that  hope  had  passed  her  by.  She  was  as  one  who 
stands  in  a  crowd  to  see  the  runners  pass  and,  before 
even  she  has  raised  herself  on  tiptoe  to  catch  a  glimpse 
above  the  heads  around  her,  is  told  that  the  race  is  over. 

This  was  Hannah,  busying  her  life  with  the  house- 
hold needs  and,  for  interest,  before  all  reward,  teaching 
the  little  children  of  friends  in  Bridnorth  and  the  neigh- 
borhood, teaching  them  their  lessons  every  morning; 
every  morning  kissing  them  when  they  came,  every 
morning  kissing  them  when  they  left. 

To  her,  the  arrival  of  the  coach  was  significant  no 
more  than  in  the  unaccustomed  passage  and  hurry  of 
life  it  brought.  To  her  it  was  a  noise  in  a  silent  street 
She  came  to  the  windows  as  a  child  would  come  to  see  a 
circus  go  by.  She  watched  its  passengers  descend  out- 

12 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

side  the  Royal  George  with  the  same  light  of  childish 
interest  in  her  eyes.  Nothing  of  what  those  passengers 
were  or  what  they  meant  reached  the  communicating 
functions  of  her  mind.  They  were  no  more  than  mere 
performers  in  the  circus  ring.  What  their  lives  were 
behind  that  flapping  canvas  of  the  tent,  which  is  the  veil 
concealing  the  lives  of  all  of  us,  she  did  not  trouble  to 
ask  herself.  Like  the  circus  performers,  they  would  be 
here  to-day  and  to-morrow  their  goods  and  chattels 
would  be  packed,  the  naphtha  flares  beneath  whose  light 
they  had  for  a  moment  appeared  would  be  extin- 
guished. Only  the  bare  ring  over  which  their  horses 
had  pranced  would  remain  in  Hannah's  mind  to  show 
where  they  had  been.  And  in  Hannah's  mind  the  grass 
would  soon  grow  again  to  blot  it  out  of  sight. 

To  Hannah  Throgmorton,  these  advents  and  excur- 
sions were  no  more  than  this. 


IV 

SOMEHOW  they  knew  in  Bridnorth  that  Jane 
was  thirty-six.  She  hid  her  gray  beneath  the 
careful  combing  of  her  back  hair. 

There  is  a  different  attitude  of  mind  in  the  woman 
who  hides  these  things  successfully  and  her  who  still 
hides  but  knows  that  she  fails.  Sharp  antagonism  and 
resentment,  this  is  the  mind  of  the  latter.  Not  only 
does  she  know  that  she  fails.  She  knows  how  others 
realize  that  she  has  tried.  Yet  something  still  urges  in 
her  purpose. 

Jane  knew  she  failed.  That  was  bitter  enough. 
But  the  greater  bitterness  lay  in  the  knowledge  that  had 
she  succeeded  it  would  have  been  of  no  avail.  For 
some  years,  unlike  her  sister  Hannah,  she  had  relin- 
quished hope,  flung  it  aside  in  all  consciousness  of  loss ; 
flung  it  aside  and  often  looked  her  God  in  the  face  with 
the  accusing  glances  of  unconcealed  reproach. 

To  Jane  that  coming  of  the  coach  was  the  reminding 
spur  that  pricked  her  memories  to  resentment.  No 
Destiny  for  her  was  to  be  found  in  the  freight  it  car- 
ried. For  each  passenger  as  they  descended  outside  the 
Royal  George,  she  had  her  caustic  comment.  Hers 
was  the  common  but  forgivably  ungenerous  spirit,  of 
the  critic  in  whose  breast  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
has  grown  sour  from  standing  overlong  in  the  idleness 
of  impotent  ability. 

14 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Yet  reminding  spur  that  it  was,  and  deeply  as  it  hurt 
her,  her  eyes  were  as  swift  and  sharp  as  any  to  take 
note  of  the  new  arrivals.  Perhaps  it  was  the  very  pain 
that  she  cherished.  Life  is  a  texture  of  sensations,  and 
if  only  the  thread  of  pain  be  left  to  keep  the  whole  to- 
gether, there  are  many  who  welcome  it  rather  than  feel 
the  bare  boards  beneath  their  feet. 

Whenever  a  man,  strange  to  them  amongst  the  regu- 
lar visitors  to  Bridnorth,  slipped  off  the  coach  at  the 
Royal  George,  she  knew  his  arrival  meant  nothing  in 
Destiny  to  her.  Yet  often  she  would  be  the  first  to 
pick  him  out. 

"  He's  new.  Wonder  if  he's  come  with  the  Tol- 
lursts." 

And  having  taken  him  in  with  a  swiftness  of  appre- 
hension, her  glances  would  shoot  from  Fanny  to  Mary 
and  back  again  as  though  she  could  steal  the  secrets  of 
Fate  out  of  their  eyes. 

It  was  Fanny  she  read  most  easily  of  all ;  Fanny  who 
in  such  moments  revealed  to  the  shrewdness  of  her  gaze 
that  faint  acceleration  of  pulse,  to  the  realization  of 
which  nothing  but  the  bitterness  in  her  heart  could  have 
sharpened  her.  It  was  upon  Fanny  then  in  these  mo- 
ments her  observation  concentrated.  Mary  eluded  her. 
Indeed  Mary,  it  seemed,  was  the  calmest  and  serenest 
of  them  all.  Sometimes  if  she  were  engrossed  in 
reading  she  did  not  even  come  to  the  window,  but 
was  content  from  her  chair  to  hear  what  they  had  to 
report. 

And  when  there  were  no  visitors  descending  from  the 

15 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

coach,  in  language  their  brother  had  long  brought  home 
from  school  and  left  behind  him  in  phrases  when  he 
went,  it  was  Jane,  with  a  laugh,  who  turned  upon  those 
other  three  and  said  — 

"  What  a  suck  for  everybody !  " 


THEN  there  was  Fanny,  whose  age  in  Brid- 
north  was  variously  guessed  to  be  between 
thirty  and  thirty-three.  No  one  knew.  Her 
sisters  never  revealed  it.  Jane  had  her  loyalties  and 
this  was  one. 

Only  Fanny  herself,  in  those  quiet  moments  when  a 
woman  is  alone  before  the  judgment  of  her  own  mir- 
ror, knew  that  the  gray  hairs  had  begun  to  make  their 
appearance  amidst  the  black.  They  were  not  even  for 
concealment  yet.  It  was  as  though  they  tried  to  hide 
themselves  from  the  swift  searching  of  her  eyes.  But 
she  had  found  them  out.  Each  one  as  pensively  she 
rolled  it  round  her  fingers,  hiding  it  away  or  burning 
it  in  the  fire,  was  a  thorn  that  pricked  and  drew  blood. 

Hope  had  not  yet  been  laid  aside  by  her.  In  that 
vivid  if  untrained  imagination  of  hers,  Romance  still 
offered  her  promise  of  the  untold  joys  and  ecstasies  of 
a  woman's  heart.  She  had  not  laid  Hope  aside,  but 
frettingly  and  constantly  Hope  was  with  her.  She 
was  conscious  of  it,  as  of  a  hidden  pain  that  warns  of 
some  disease  only  the  knife  can  cure. 

Always  she  was  clutching  it  and  only  the  writing  of 
her  ill-measured  verses  of  poetry  could  anesthetize  her 
knowledge  of  its  presence.  Then,  when  she  was  beat- 
ing out  her  fancies  in  those  uncomely  words  of  almost 

17 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

childish  verse,  the  pain  of  the  hope  she  had  would  lie 
still,  soothed  to  sleep  fulness  by  the  soporific  of  her 
wandering  imagination. 

What,  can  it  be  supposed,  was  the  coming  of  the 
coach  to  her  ? 

The  vehicle  of  Fate  it  has  been  said  it  was,  bringing 
a  Destiny  which  for  thirty  years  and  more  had  lingered 
on  its  journey,  for  never  had  it  been  set  down  at  the 
Royal  George. 

Already  she  knew  that  she  was  tired  of  waiting  for 
it.  Often  that  tiredness  overcame  her.  Through  the 
long  winter  months  when  the  Bridnorth  stream  was 
languid  and  shallow  in  its  flow,  she  became  listless 
when  she  was  not  irritable,  and  the  look  of  those 
thirty-three  years  was  added  in  their  fullness  in  her 
eyes. 

A  visit  into  the  world  amongst  those  friends  they 
had,  transitory  though  those  visits  may  have  been,  re- 
vived courage  in  her.  And  all  through  the  Spring  and 
Summer  season,  she  fought  that  fatigue  as  a  woman 
must  and  will  so  long  as  the  hope  of  Romance  has  even 
one  red  spark  of  fire  in  her  heart. 

It  was  not  a  man  so  much  she  wanted,  as  Romance. 
She  alone  could  have  told  what  was  meant  by  that. 
The  one  man  she  had  known  had  almost  made  her  hate 
his  sex.  It  was  not  so  much  to  her  a  stranger  who 
stepped  down  outside  the  Royal  George  and  trod  her 
pulse  to  acceleration,  as  the  urgent  wonder  of  what 
might  happen  in  the  weeks  to  come;  of  what  might 
happen  to  her  in  the  very  core  of  her  being.  He  was 

18 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

no  more  than  a  medium,  an  instrument  to  bring  about 
those  happenings.  She  knew  in  herself  what  ecstasy 
she  could  suffer,  how  her  heart  could  throb  behind  her 
wasted  breast,  how  every  vein  threading  her  body 
would  become  the  channel  for  a  warmer  race  of  blood. 
It  was  not  so  much  that  she  wanted  a  man  to  love  as 
to  feel  love  itself  with  all  its  accompanying  sensations 
of  fear  and  wonder,  yet  knowing  all  the  time  that  be- 
fore these  emotions  could  happen  to  her,  she  must  at- 
tract and  be  found  acceptable,  must  in  another  waken 
some  strange  need  to  be  the  kindling  spark  in  her. 

Only  once  had  it  seemed  she  had  succeeded.  There 
had  come  a  visitor  to  the  Royal  George  with  whom  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  the  summer  life  of  Bridnorth, 
acquaintance  had  soon  been  made.  None  of  them 
were  slow  to  realize  the  interest  he  had  taken  in  Fanny. 
Before  he  left  they  twice  had  walked  over  the  moors 
to  where  on  the  highest  and  loneliest  point  of  the  cliffs 
you  can  see  the  whole  sweep  of  Bridnorth  bay  and  in 
clear  weather  the  first  jutting  headland  on  the  Cornish 
coast. 

Many  a  love  match  in  Bridnorth  had  been  made 
about  those  heathered  moors.  It  was  no  love  match 
he  made  with  Fanny.  What  happened  only  Mary 
knew.  He  had  taken  Fanny  in  his  arms  and  he  had 
kissed  her.  For  many  months  she  had  felt  those 
kisses,  not  in  the  touch  of  his  lips  so  much  as  in  waves 
of  emotion  that  tumbled  in  a  riot  through  her  veins  and 
left  her  trembling  in  the  darkness  of  night.  For  he 
had  never  told  her  that  he  loved  her. 

19 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

In  three  weeks  he  had  gone  away  having  said  no 
word  to  bind  her.  In  two  months'  time  or  little  more, 
she  read  of  his  marriage  in  the  London  papers  and  that 
night  stared  and  stared  at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror 
when  she  went  to  bed. 

For  in  her  heart  and  below  the  communicating  con- 
sciousness of  her  thoughts,  she  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened. Never  could  she  have  told  herself;  far  less 
spoken  of  it  to  others.  But  while  he  had  held  her  in 
his  arms,  she  had  known  even  then.  She  had  felt  her 
body  thin  and  spare  and  meager  against  his.  Some- 
thing unalluring  in  herself  she  had  realized  as  his  lips 
touched  the  eagerness  of  her  own. 

That  strange  need  of  which  in  experience  she  had 
no  knowledge,  she  knew  in  that  instant  had  not  wak- 
ened in  him  as  he  held  her.  However  passionate  his 
kisses  in  their  strangeness  had  seemed,  they  lacked  a 
fire  of  which,  knowing  nothing,  she  yet  knew  all. 

Still,  nevertheless,  she  waited  and  the  fatigue  of  that 
waiting  each  year  was  added  in  her  eyes. 

The  coming  of  the  coach  to  her  was  like  that  of  a 
ship,  hard-beating  into  harbor  with  broken  spars  and 
sails  all  rent.  Yet  with  every  coming,  her  heart  lifted, 
and  with  every  new  arrival,  strange  to  Bridnorth,  her 
eyes  would  wear  a  brighter  light,  her  laugh  would  catch 
a  brighter  ring. 

"  Really,  you'd  never  think  Fanny  was  thirty- 
three  !  "  Hannah  once  said  on  one  of  these  occasions. 

"  You  wait  for  a  week  or  two,"  retorted  Jane. 

And  in  a  week  or  two  when  the  visitor  had  departed, 

20 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Jane  would  catch  Hannah's  eyes  across  the  breakfast 
table  and  direct  them  silently  to  Fanny  sitting  there. 
There  was  no  need  to  say  — "  I  told  you  so."  Jane 
could  convey  all  and  more  in  her  glance  than  that.  She 
took  charge  of  Hannah's  vision,  as  Hannah  took  charge 
of  her  children.  That  was  enough. 


VI 

IT  was  to  Mary  Throgmorton  in  those  days  that 
this  coming  of  the  Abbotscombe  coach  is  most 
elusive  of  all  to  define.     So  much  less  of  the 
emotions  of  hopefulness,  of  curiosity,  or  even  of  child- 
ish interest  did  she  betray,  that  there  is  little  in  action 
or  conduct  to  illuminate  her  state  of  mind. 

In  those  days,  which  must  be  understood  to  mean 
the  beginning  of  this  history,  and  in  fact  were  the  final 
decade  of  the  last  century,  Mary  was  twenty-nine. 

That  is  a  significant  age  and,  to  any  more  versed  in 
experience  than  she,  must  bring  deep  consideration 
with  it.  By  then  a  woman  knows  the  transitoriness  of 
youth;  she  realizes  how  short  is  the  span  of  time  in 
which  a  woman  can  control  her  destiny.  She  sees  in 
the  eyes  of  others  that  life  is  slipping  by  her;  she  dis- 
covers how  those  who  were  children  about  her  in  her 
youth  are  gliding  into  the  age  of  attractiveness,  claim- 
ing attention  that  is  not  so  readily  hers  as  it  was  or  as 
she  imagines  perhaps  it  might  have  been. 

In  such  a  state  of  mind  must  many  a  woman  pause. 
It  is  as  though  for  one  instant  she  had  power  to  arrest 
the  traffic  of  time  that  she  might  take  this  crossing  in 
the  streets  of  life  with  unhampered  deliberation.  For 

22 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

here  often  she  will  choose  her  direction  in  the  full  con- 
sciousness of  thought.  No  longer  dare  she  leave  her 
destiny  to  the  hazard  of  chance.  It  has  become,  not 
the  Romance  that  will  happen  upon  her  in  the  glorious 
and  unexpected  suddenness  of  ecstasy,  but  the  Romance 
she  must  find,  eager  in  her  searching,  swift  in  her 
choice  lest  life  all  go  by  and  the  traffic  of  time  sweep 
over  her. 

This  choice  she  must  make  or  work  must  save  her, 
for  life  has  become  as  vital  to  women  as  it  is  to  men. 
At  twenty-nine  this  is  many  a  woman's  dilemma.  Yet 
at  twenty-nine  no  such  consciousness  of  the  need  of 
deliberation  had  entered  the  mind  of  Mary  Throgmor- 
ton.  Perhaps  it  was  because  there  were  no  younger 
creatures  about  her,  growing  up  to  the  youth  she  was 
leaving  behind;  perhaps  because  in  the  quietness  of 
seclusion,  by  that  Bridnorth  stream,  the  gentle,  rippling 
song  of  it  had  never  wakened  her  to  life. 

In  the  height  of  its  flood,  that  Bridnorth  stream  had 
never  a  note  to  distress  the  placidity  of  her  thoughts. 
She  had  heard  indeed  the  Niagara  of  life  in  London, 
but  as  a  tourist  only,  standing  for  a  moment  on  its  brink 
with  a  guide  shouting  the  mere  material  facts  of  so- 
called  interest  in  her  ears.  It  was  all  too  deafening 
and  astounding  to  be  more  than  a  passing  wonder  in 
her  mind.  She  would  return  to  Bridnorth  with  its 
thunder  roaring  in  her  ears,  glad  of  the  quiet  stream 
again  and  having  gained  no  more  experience  of  life 
than  does  an  American  tourist  of  the  life  of  London 
when  he  counts  the  steps  up  to  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's 

23 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Cathedral  and  hurries  down  to  catch  the  train  to  the 
birthplace  of  Shakespeare. 

At  twenty-nine,  Mary  Throgmorton  was  in  many 
respects  still  the  same  girl  as  when  at  the  age  of 
eighteen  she  had  first  bound  that  fair  hair  upon  her 
head  and  looked  with  all  the  seriousness  of  her  gray 
eyes  at  the  vision  the  reflecting  mirror  presented  to  her. 
Scarcely  had  she  noticed  her  growth  into  womanhood 
for,  as  has  been  said,  her  beauty  was  not  that  of  the 
flesh  that  is  pink  and  white.  It  was  in  stone  her 
beauty  lay  and  even  her  own  hands  did  not  warm  to 
the  touch  of  it.  But  where  in  Bridnorth  was  there 
kindling  enough  to  light  so  fierce  a  fire  as  she  needed 
to  overwhelm  her  ? 

This  is  the  tragedy  of  a  thousand  women  who  pass 
through  life  and  never  touch  its  meaning;  these  thou- 
sand women  who  one  day  will  alter  the  force-made 
laws  for  a  world  built  nearer  to  the  purpose  of  their 
being;  these  thousand  women  to  whom  the  figure  of 
Mary  Throgmorton  stands  there  by  Bridnorth  village 
in  her  monument  of  stone  upon  the  Devon  cliffs. 

With  all  this  unconsciousness  of  design  in  the  pat- 
tern of  her  life,  the  coming  of  the  coach  to  Mary  is 
well-nigh  too  subtle  to  admit  of  capture  in  the  rigid 
medium  of  words.  Truly  enough,  if  deeply  engaged 
in  one  of  the  many  books  she  read,  there  were  times 
and  often  when,  from  those  front  windows  of  the 
square,  white  house,  she  would  let  her  sisters  report 
upon  the  new  or  strange  arrivals  set  down  outside  the 
Royal  George. 

24 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Even  Jane,  with  her  shrewdness  of  vision,  was  mis- 
led by  this  into  the  belief  that  Mary  cared  less  than 
them  all  what  interest  the  Abbotscombe  coach  might 
bring  for  the  moment  into  their  lives. 

"  I  wonder  what  his  handicap  is,"  she  had  said  when 
they  had  described  a  young  man  descending  from  the 
box  seat  with  a  bag  of  golf  clubs. 

Notwithstanding  all  Mary's  undoubted  excellence 
at  that  game  or  indeed  at  any  game  to  which  she  gave 
her  hand,  Jane,  disposed  by  nature  to  doubt,  would 
sharply  look  at  her.  But  apparently  there  was  no  in- 
tention to  deceive.  If  the  book  was  really  engrossing, 
she  would  return  to  its  pages  no  sooner  than  the  re- 
mark was  made,  as  though  time  would  prove  what  sort 
of  performer  he  was,  since  all  golfers  who  came  to 
Bridnorth  found  themselves  glad  to  range  their  skill 
against  hers  on  the  links. 

(And  when,  as  it  happened,  she  joined  them  at  those 
front  windows,  consenting  to  their  little  deceptions  of 
casual  interest  in  the  midst  of  more  important  occupa- 
tions—  for  Jane  would  say,  "Mary,  you  can't  just 
stare  " —  it  was  with  no  more  than  calculation  as  to 
what  amusement  the  visitors  would  provide  that  Mary 
appeared  to  regard  their  arrival. 

Not  one  of  them,  however,  not  even  Fanny,  knew 
that  there  were  days  in  those  Spring  and  Summer 
months,  when  Mary,  setting  forth  with  her  strong 
stride  and  walking  alone  up  on  to  the  heathered  moors 
would,  with  intention,  seat  herself  in  a  spot  where  the 
Abbotscombe  coach  could  be  seen  winding  its  way 

25 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

down  the  hill  into  Bridnorth.  It  was  one  spot  alone 
from  which  the  full  stretch  of  the  road  could  be  ob- 
served. By  accident  one  day  she  had  found  it,  just  at 
that  hour  when  the  coach  went  by.  She  had  known 
and  made  use  of  it  for  six  years  and  more. 

At  first  it  was  the  mere  interest  of  a  moving  thing 
passing  in  the  far  line  of  vision  to  its  determined  desti- 
nation; the  interest  of  that  floating  object  the  stream 
catches  in  its  eddies  and  carries  in  its  flowing  out  of 
sight. 

So  it  was  at  first,  until  in  some  subconscious  way  it 
grew  to  hold  for  her  a  sense  of  mystery.  She  would 
never  have  called  it  mystery  herself  —  the  attraction 
had  no  name  in  her  mind.  No  more  did  she  do  than 
sit  and  watch  its  passage,  dimly  conscious  that  that 
little  moving  speck  upon  the  road,  framed  in  its  aura  of 
dust,  was  moving  into  the  horizon  of  her  life  and  as 
soon  would  move  out  again,  leaving  her  the  same  as  she 
was  before. 

Habit  it  was  to  think  she  would  be  left  the  same; 
yet  always  whilst  it  was  there  in  the  line  of  her  eyes,  it 
had  seemed  that  something,  having  no  word  in  her  con- 
sciousness, might  happen  to  her  with  its  passing. 

So  vividly  sometimes  it  appeared  to  be  moving 
directly  into  her  life.  So  vividly  sometimes,  when  it 
had  gone,  it  appeared  to  have  left  her  behind.  She 
would  have  described  it  no  more  graphically  or  con- 
sciously than  that. 

For  during  those  six  years,  nothing  indeed  had  hap- 
pened to  her.  The  passing  of  the  coach  along  that 

26 


thread  of  road  had  remained  a  mystery.  Companions 
and  acquaintances  it  had  brought  and  often;  women 
with  whom  she  had  formed  friendships,  men  with 
whom  she  had  played  strenuously  and  en  joy  ably  in 
their  games  of  golf. 

Never  had  it  brought  her  even  such  an  experience  as 
her  elder  sister's.  She  had  never  wished  it  should. 
There  was  no  such  readiness  to  yield  in  her  as  there 
was  in  Fanny;  no  undisguised  eagerness  for  life  such 
as  might  tempt  the  heartlessness  of  a  man  to  a  passing 
flirtation. 

She  treated  all  men  the  same  with  the  frank  candor 
of  her  nature,  which  allowed  no  familiarity  of  ap- 
proach. Only  with  his  heart  could  a  man  have  reached 
her,  never  with  his  arms  or  his  lips  as  Fanny  had  been. 

Perhaps  in  those  brief  acquaintanceships,  mainly  oc- 
cupied with  their  games,  there  was  no  time  for  the 
deeper  emotions  of  a  man's  heart  to  be  stirred.  But 
most  potent  reason  of  all,  it  was  that  she  had  none  of 
the  superficial  allurements  of  her  sex.  Strength  was 
the  beauty  of  her.  It  was  a  common  attitude  of  hers 
to  stand  with  legs  apart  set  firmly  on  her  feet'  as  she 
talked.  Yet  there  was  no  masculinity  she  conveyed. 
Only  it  was  that  so  would  a  man  find  her  if  he  sought 
passion  in  her  arms  and  perhaps  they  feared  the  pas- 
sion they  might  discover. 

It  was  the  transitoriness  not  only  of  hers  but  of  all 
those  women's  touch  with  life  that  made  the  pattern  of 
their  destiny.  No  man  had  stayed  long  enough  in 
Bridnorth  to  discover  the  tenderness  and  nobility  o£ 

27 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Mary  Throgmorton.  In  that  cold  quality  of  her 
beauty  they  saw  her  remotely  and  only  in  the  distances 
in  which  she  placed  herself.  None  had  come  close 
enough  to  observe  that  gentle  smile  the  sculptor  had 
curved  about  her  lips,  the  deep  and  tender  softness  of 
her  eyes.  It  was  in  outline  only  they  beheld  her,  never 
believing  that  beneath  that  firm  full  curve  of  her  breast 
there  could  beat  a  heart  as  wildly  and  as  fearfully  as 
a  netted  bird's,  or  that  once  beating  so,  that  heart  would 
beat  for  them  forever. 

It  was  just  the  faint  knowledge  of  this  in  herself 
which  made  that  passing  coach  a  mystery  to  Mary.  It 
was  not  as  with  Fanny  that  she  thought  of  it  as  a 
vehicle  of  her  Destiny,  but  that,  as  she  sat  there  on  the 
moors  above  Bridnorth,  it  was  a  link  with  the  world 
she  had  so  often  read  of  in  her  books. 

It  came  to  her  out  of  the  blue  over  the  hill,  as  a 
pigeon  come  with  a  message  under  its  wing.  Detach- 
ing that  message  again  and  again,  she  read  it  in  a  whis- 
per in  her  heart. 

"  There  is  life  away  there  beyond  the  hill,"  it  ran. 
"There  is  life  away  there  beyond  the  hill  —  and  life 
is  pain  as  well  as  joy  and  life  is  sorrow  as  well  as  hap- 
piness; but  life  is  ours  and  we  are  here  to  live." 

That  message  somewhere  in  the  secrets  of  her  heart 
she  kept  and  every  time  the  coach  passed  by  when  she 
was  in  the  house  the  horses'  hoofs  on  the  village  road 
beat  in  her  thoughts — "Life  is  ours,  we  are  here  to 
live." 


VII 

PORTRAITS  in  oil  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Throgmor- 
ton  hung  on  the  walls  of  the  dining-room  in 
their  square,   white  house.     Though  painted 
by  a  local  artist  when  Mary  was  quite  a  child,  they  had 
one  prominent  virtue  of  execution.     They  were  arrest- 
ing likenesses. 

It  is  open  to  question  whether  a  man  has  a  right  to 
impose  his  will  when  he  is  gone  upon  those  who  follow 
after  him.  With  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Throgmorton  it  was 
not  so  much  an  imposition  of  will.  Their  money  had 
been  left  without  reservation  to  be  divided  equally 
amongst  the  four  girls.  If  any  imposition  there  might 
be,  it  was  of  their  personality.  Looking  down  at  their 
children  from  those  two  portraits  on  the  wall,  they  still 
controlled  the  spirit  of  that  house  as  surely  as  when 
they  had  been  alive. 

Every  morning  and  evening,  Hannah  read  the  pray- 
ers as  her  father  had  done  before  her.  No  more  could 
she  have  ceased  from  doing  this  than  could  any  one  of 
them  have  removed  his  portrait  from  its  exact  place  in 
the  dining-room. 

It  was  the  look  in  her  father's  and  her  mother's  eyes 
more  than  any  comment  of  her  sisters'  that  Fanny 
feared  to  meet  after  her  episode  with  the  visitor  to 
Bridnorth. 

29 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

For  in  their  lifetime,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Throgmorton 
had  been  parents  of  that  rigid  Victorian  spirit.  Love 
they  must  have  given  their  children  or  their  influence 
would  never  have  survived.  Love  indeed  they  did 
give,  but  it  was  a  stern  and  passionless  affection. 

Looking  down  upon  their  four  daughters  in  those 
days  of  the  beginning  of  this  story,  they  must  have 
been  well  satisfied  that  if  not  one  of  them  had  found 
the  sanctity  of  married  life  then  at  least  not  one  of 
them,  unless  perhaps  it  was  Fanny,  had  known  the 
shame  of  an  unhallowed  passion. 

Fanny  they  might  have  had  their  doubts  about.  After 
that  episode  she  often  felt  they  had;  often  seemed  to 
detect  a  glance  not  so  much  of  pity  as  of  pain  in  her 
mother's  eyes.  At  her  father,  for  some  weeks  after  the 
visitor's  departure,  she  was  almost  afraid  to  look.  In 
his  life  he  had  been  just.  He  would  have  been  just  in 
his  condemnation  of  her  then.  Self-control  had  been 
the  measure  of  all  his  actions.  Of  self-control  in  that 
moment  on  the  cliffs  she  knew  she  had  had  none.  She 
had  leant  herself  into  his  arms  because  in  the  violent 
beating  of  her  breast  it  had  seemed  she  had  no  strength 
to  do  otherwise.  And  when  he  kissed  her,  it  had  felt 
as  though  all  the  strength  she  had  in  her  soul  and  body 
had  been  taken  from  her  into  his. 

Had  her  father  known  such  sensations  as  that  when 
he  talked  of  self-control? 

Well  indeed  did  she  know  what  her  mother  would 
have  said.  Tf*  all  those  four  girls  she  had  said  the 
same  with  parental  regard;  and  to  each  one  severally 

30 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

as  they  had  come  to  that  age  when  she  had  felt  it  ex- 
pedient to  enlighten  them. 

"  God  knows,"  she  had  always  begun,  for  the  use  of 
the  name  of  God  hallowed  such  moments  as  these  to 
her  and  softened  the  terribleness  of  all  she  had  to  say, 
"  God  knows,  my  dear,  what  future  there  is  in  store  for 
you.  If  it  is  His  will  you  should  never  marry,  you 
will  be  spared  much  of  the  pain,  much  of  the  trouble 
and  the  penalties  of  life.  I  love  your  father.  No 
woman  could  have  loved  him  more.  He  is  a  fine  and 
a  good  man.  But  there  are  things  a  woman  must 
submit  to  in  her  married  life  —  that  is  the  cross  she 
must  bear  —  which  no  words  of  mine  can  describe  to 
you.  Nevertheless,  don't  think  I  complain.  Don't 
think  I  do  not  realize  there  is  a  blessed  reward.  Her 
children  are  the  light  of  life  to  her.  Without  them,  I 
dread  to  think  what  she  must  suffer  at  the  hands  of 
Nature  when  the  mercy  of  God  has  no  recompense  in 
store.  Eve  was  cursed  with  the  bearing  of  children, 
but  they  brought  the  mercy  of  God  to  her  in  their  little 
hands  when  once  they  were  born." 

This  usually  had  been  her  concluding  phrase.  This 
without  variation  she  repeated  to  all  of  them.  Of  this 
phrase,  if  vanity  she  had  at  all,  she  was  greatly  proud. 
It  seemed  to  her,  in  illuminating  language  to  comprise 
the  whole  meaning  of  her  discourse. 

Hannah,  Jane,  Fanny,  all  in  their  turn  had  accepted 
it  in  silence.  It  had  been  left  to  Mary  to  say  — 

"  It  seems  hard  on  a  man  that  he  should  have  to 
suffer,  because  he  doesn't  get  the  reward  of  having 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

children  like  the  woman  does.     Of  course  they're  his 
—  but  he  doesn't  bring  them  into  the  world." 

At  this  issue,  Mrs.  Throgmorton  had  taken  her 
daughter's  hands  in  hers  and,  in  a  tone  of  voice  Mary 
had  never  forgotten,  she  had  replied  — 

"  I  never  said,  my  dear,  that  the  man  did  suffer. 
He  doesn't.  If  it  were  not  for  the  sanctity  of  mar- 
riage, it  would  have  to  be  described  as  unholy  pleasure 
to  him.  That  pleasure  a  woman  must  submit  to. 
That  pleasure  it  is  her  bitter  duty  to  give.  That's  why 
I  say  I  dread  to  think  what  she  must  suffer,  as  some 
unfortunately  do,  when  the  mercy  of  God  does  not 
recompense  her  with  the  gift  of  children." 

Closely  watching  her  daughter's  face  in  the  silence 
that  followed,  Mrs.  Throgmorton  had  known  that 
Mary's  mind  was  not  yet  satisfied  with  the  food  for 
thought  and  conduct  she  had  given  it.  She  became 
conscious  of  a  dread  of  what  this  youngest  child  of 
hers  would  say  next.  And  when  Mary  spoke  at  last, 
her  worst  fears  were  realized. 

"  Can  a  woman,"  she  said,  "  give  pleasure  to  the 
man  she  loves  when  all  the  time  she  is  suffering  shame 
and  agony  herself?  If  he  loves  her,  what  pleasure 
could  it  be  to  him  ?  " 

Mrs.  Throgmorton  had  closed  her  eyes  and  doubt- 
less in  that  moment  of  their  closure  she  had  prayed. 
So  confused  had  been  her  mind  in  face  of  this  question 
that  for  the  instant  she  could  do  no  more  than  say  — 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Well  —  simply  — "  -replied  Mary  in  a  childlike  in- 

32 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

nocence — "  simply  that  it  seems  to  me  if  a  woman  is 
giving  pleasure  to  a  man  she  really  loves,  she  must  be 
getting  pleasure  herself.  If  I  give  you  a  present  at 
Christmas  and  you  like  it  and  it  gives  you  pleasure, 
I'm  not  sure  it  doesn't  give  me  more  pleasure  than  you 
to  see  you  pleased,  because  —  well,  because  I  love  you. 
Why  do  you  say  '  It's  more  blessed  to  give  than  to 
receive  '  ?  " 

That  little  touch  of  affection  from  her  daughter  had 
stirred  Mrs.  Throgmorton's  heart.  Unable  to  restrain 
herself,  she  had  taken  Mary's  hands  again  with  a  closer 
warmth  in  her  own. 

"  Ah,  more  blessed,  dear  —  yes  —  there  is  of  course 
the  pleasure  of  blessedness,  the  satisfaction  of  duty 
uncomplainingly  done.  I  have  never  denied  that." 

She  had  spoken  this  triumphantly,  feeling  that  light 
at  last  had  been  shown  in  answer  to  her  prayer.  Not 
for  a  moment  was  she  expectant  of  her  daughter's 
reply. 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  mother,"  Mary  had  said. 
"  Satisfaction  seems  to  me  a  thing  you  know  in  your 
own  heart.  No  one  can  share  it  with  you.  Of  course 
I  don't  know  the  feelings  of  a  man,  how  could  I  ?  I'm 
not  married.  But  if  I  were  a  man  it  wouldn't  give 
me  any  pleasure  to  think  that  the  woman  I  loved  was 
just  satisfied  because  she'd  done  her  duty.  I  should 
want  to  share  my  pleasure  with  her,  not  look  on  at  a 
distance  at  her  satisfaction.  If  a  man  ever  loves  me, 
I  believe  I  shall  feel  what  he  feels  and  if  I  do,  I  shall 
be  glad  of  it  and  make  him  glad  too." 

33 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

She  had  said  it  all  without  emotion,  almost  without 
one  note  of  feeling  in  her  voice;  but  the  mere  words 
themselves  were  sufficient  to  strike  terror  into  Mrs. 
Throgmorton's  heart.  That  terror  showed  itself  un- 
disguised in  her  face. 

"  My  dear  —  my  dear  — "  she  whispered  — "  I  pray 
God  you  never  do  feel  so,  or  if  it  be  His  will  you 
should,  that  you  will  never  forget  your  modesty  or 
your  self-respect  so  much  as  to  reveal  it  to  any  man 
however  much  you  may  love  him." 

To  these  four  girls  in  that  square,  white  house  in 
Bridnorth,  this  was  such  an  influence  as  still  reigned 
in  undisputed  sway.  The  eyes  of  their  parents  from 
those  portraits  still  looked  down  upon  them  at  their 
prayers  or  at  their  meals.  Still  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Throgmorton  whispered  in  Mary's  ears  — "  I  pray 
God  you  will  never  forget  your  modesty  or  your  self- 
respect."  Still,  even  when  she  was  twenty-nine, 
Mary's  eyes  would  lift  to  her  father's  face  gazing  down 
from  the  wall  upon  her,  wondering  if  he  had  ever 
known  the  life  she  had  suspicion  of  from  the  books 
she  read.  -Still  she  would  glance  at  them  both,  pre- 
pared to  believe  that,  however  dominant  it  was  in  their 
home,  the  expression  of  their  lives  had  been  only  the 
husk  of  existence. 

And  then  perhaps  at  that  very  moment  the  coach 
might  pass  by  on  its  way  to  the  Royal  George  and  the 
horses'  hoofs  would  sing  as  they  beat  upon  the  road 
— "  Life  is  ours  —  we  are  here  to  live  —  Life  is  ours 
—  we  are  here  to  live." 

34 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Yet  there  in  Bridnorth  at  twenty-nine,  no  greater 
impetus  had  come  to  her  to  live  than  the  most  vague 
wonderings,  the  most  transient  of  dreams. 


VIII 

IT  was  the  Sunday  before  Christmas  of  the  year 
1894.     No   coach   had   come  to   Bridnorth    for 
three  weeks.     The  snow  which  had  fallen  there 
was  still  lying  six  inches  deep  all  over  the  countryside 
and  on  the  roads  where  it  had  been  beaten  down  at  all, 
was  as  hard  as  ice.     Footmarks  had  mottled  it.     It 
shone  in  the  sun  like  the  skin  of  a  snow  leopard. 

The  hills  around  Bridnorth  and  all  the  fields  as  far 
as  eye  could  see  were  washed  the  purest  white.  Every 
hedge  had  its  mantle,  every  tree  and  every  branch  its 
sleeves  of  snow.  The  whole  world  seemed  buried. 
Scarce  one  dark  object  was  to  be  seen.  Only  the  sea 
stretched  dark  and  gray  like  ice  water,  the  little  waves 
in  that  still  air  there  was,  falling  on  the  beach  with  the 
brittle  noises  of  breaking  glass. 

Only  for  this,  a  silence  had  fallen  everywhere. 
Footsteps  made  no  sound.  The  birds  were  hidden  in 
the  hearts  of  the  hedges  and  even  when  hunger  drew 
them  forth  in  search  of  berries,  it  was  without  noise 
they  went,  in  swift,  dipping  flights  —  a  dark  thing 
flashing  by,  no  more. 

Every  one  put  on  goloshes  to  climb  or  descend  the 
hill  to  church.  The  Vicar  and  his  wife  came  stepping 
over  from  the  Vicarage  close  by  like  a  pair  of  storks 
and  when  the  bell  stopped  ringing  it  was  as  though  an- 

36 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

other  cloak  of  silence  had  been  flung  over  Bridnorth 
village.  The  Vicar  felt  that  additional  silence  as 
acutely  as  any  one.  It  seemed  to  him  it  fell  to  pre- 
pare the  way  for  worship  in  the  house  of  God  and  the 
sermon  he  was  about  to  preach. 

The  attendance  that  morning  was  no  different  from 
what  it  would  have  been  had  the  roads  been  clear. 
Going  to  church  in  the  country  is  a  comfortable  habit. 
At  their  midday  meal  afterwards  the  subject  of  the 
attendance  would  crop  up  at  the  Vicar's  table  as  it 
always  did,  ever  full  of  interest  as  is  the  subject  of  the 
booking-office  returns  to  a  theatrical  manager.  He 
would  congratulate  himself  upon  the  numbers  he  had 
seen  below  him  from  that  eminence  of  the  pulpit  and 
would  have  been  hurt  beyond  degree  had  any  one  sug- 
gested it  was  largely  habit  that  brought  them  there. 

The  Throgmorton  family  would  no  more  have 
thought  of  staying  away  because  of  the  weather  than 
they  would  have  thought  of  turning  the  two  portraits  in 
the  dining-room  with  their  faces  to  the  wall. 

They  collected  in  the  square  hall  of  the  square,  white 
house.  They  put  on  their  gloves  and  their  goloshes; 
they  held  their  prayer  books  in  their  hands ;  they  each 
looked  for  the  last  time  to  see  that  their  threepenny 
bits  were  safe  in  the  palms  of  their  gloves.  Then  they 
set  off. 

The  church  in  the  country  is  a  meeting  place  in  a 
sense  other  than  that  of  worship.  You  may  desire  at 
most  times  the  quietness  of  your  own  home,  but  you 
like  to  see  the  world  about  you  in  a  public  place. 

37 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

They  worshipped  God,  those  people  in  Bridnorth. 
Who  could  hope  to  maintain  that  they  did  not  ?  They 
were  close  enough  to  Him  in  all  conscience  and  fact  on 
those  Devon  hills.  But  that  worship  was  more  in  the 
silence  of  their  own  hearts,  more  on  the  floor  at  their 
own  bedside  than  ever  it  was  at  the  service  conducted 
by  the  Vicar  as  so  many  services  are  conducted  by  so 
many  Vicars  in  so  many  parishes  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  whole  country. 

The  interest  of  seeing  a  fresh  face,  of  even  seeing  an 
old  face  if  it  be  under  a  new  hat;  the  mere  interest  of 
human  contact,  of  exchanging  a  word  as  they  went  in 
or  mildly  criticizing  as  they  came  out;  the  mild  neces- 
sity of  listening  to  what  the  Vicar  said  from  the  pul- 
pit, the  sterner  necessity  of  trying  to  understand  what 
he  meant;  the  excitement  of  wearing  a  new  frock,  the 
speculations  upon  the  new  frock  worn  by  another,  these 
were  more  the  causes  of  a  good  attendance  in  the  worst 
of  weather,  these  and  that  same  consciousness  of  being 
overlooked,  of  having  one's  conduct  under  the  gaze  of 
all  who  chose  to  satisfy  themselves  about  it. 

As  the  Vicar  climbed  the  pulpit  steps,  the  congrega- 
tion settled  themselves  down  with  that  moving  in  their 
pews  with  all  customary  signs  of  that  spirit  of  patience 
every  priest  Relieves  to  be  one  of  interest.  Leaning 
her  square,  strong  shoulders  against  the  upright  back 
of  the  Throgmorton  pew,  Mary  composed  her  mind 
with  mild  attention.  Fanny  shifted  her  hassock  to  the 
most  restful  position  for  her  feet.  That  sharp  inter- 
rogative look  of  criticism  drew,  itself  out  in  the  line  of 

38 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Jane's  lips  and  steadied  itself  in  her  eyes.  Hannah  was 
the  only  one  upon  whose  face  a  rapt  expression  fell. 
With  all  her  gray  hair  and  her  forty  years,  she  was 
the  youngest  of  them  all,  still  cherishing  her  ideals  of 
the  infallible  priest  in  the  man  of  cloth;  still  believing 
that  the  voice  of  God  could  speak  even  through  the  in- 
ferior brain  of  a  country  Vicar.  Above  all  there  were 
her  children  who  the  next  morning  would  ask  her  what 
the  sermon  meant.  It  was  necessary  if  only  for  their 
sakes  she  should  not  lose  a  word  that  was  said. 

After  that  pause  on  his  knees  when  the  Vicar's  head 
was  bent  in  prayer,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and,  as  he  spread 
out  the  pages  of  his  sermon  before  him,  cast  a  signifi- 
cant glance  around  the  church.  This  was  preliminary 
to  every  sermon  he  preached.  It  was  as  though  he 
said  — "  I  cannot  have  any  signs  of  inattention.  If 
your  minds  have  wandered  at  all  during  the  service, 
they  must  wander  no  more.  I  feel  I  have  got  some- 
thing to  say  which  is  vital  to  all  of  you/' 

All  this  happened  that  December  morning,  just  as  it 
had  occurred  every  morning  for  the  twenty  years  he 
had  been  the  shepherd  of  their  souls.  It  was  almost  as 
long  as  Mary  could  remember. 

Having  cast  that  glance  about  him,  he  cleared  his 
throat  —  the  same  sounds  as  Jane  once  caustically  re- 
marked they  had  heard  one  thousand  times,  allowing 
two  Sundays  in  the  year  for  a  locum  tcnens. 

Then  he  gave  out  his  text :  "  And  the  Angel  said 
unto  her  — '  Fear  not,  Mary,  for  thou  hast  found  favor 
with  God.'  " 


IX 

PERHAPS  it  was  the  sound  of  her  own  name 
there  amongst  all  those  people  which  stirred 
her  mind  and  added  a  quicker  beat  of  the  pulse 
to  Mary  Throgmorton's  heart.  The  full  significance 
of  the  text,  the  circumstance  to  which  it  referred,  these 
could  not  have  reached  her  mind  so  swiftly,  even 
though  Fanny  with  a  sharp  turn  of  the  head  had  looked 
at  her. 

"  '  Fear  not,  Mary,  for  thou  hast-  found  favor  with 
God.'  " 

It  was  at  first  the  sound  of  her  name,  the  more  as 
he  repeated  it.  Listening  to  that  habitual  intonation 
of  the  Vicar's  voice,  it  meant  nothing  to  her  as  yet  that 
Mary  had  found  favor  with  her  God.  The  only  effect 
it  had  was  the  more  completely  to  arrest  her  mind  in 
a  manner  in  which  she  had  never  been  conscious  of  its 
arrest  before.  She  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap.  It 
was  a  characteristic  sign  of  attention  in  her.  She 
folded  her  hands  and  raised  her  eyes  steadily  to  the 
pulpit. 

"  There  are  some  things,"  began  the  Vicar,  "  which 
it  is  necessary  for  us  to  understand  though  they  are 
completely  outside  the  range  of  our  comprehension." 

Involuntarily  her  interest  was  set  back.  It  was  the 

40 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

delivery  of  suqh  statements  as  these  with  which  the 
Vicar  had  fed  the  mind  of  his  congregation  for  the 
last  twenty  years.  For  how  could  one  understand  that 
which  was  completely  outside  the  range  of  comprehen- 
sion ?  Insensibly  Mary's  fingers  relaxed  as  they  lay  in 
her  lap.  She  drew  a  long  breath  of  disappointment. 

"  The  immaculate  conception  of  the  Virgin  Mary," 
he  continued,  "  is  one  of  those  mysteries  in  the  teach- 
ing of  the  Church  which  passes  comprehension  but 
which  it  is  expedient  for  us  to  understand,  lest  we  be 
led  away  by  it  towards  such  false  conceptions  as  are 
held  by  the  Church  of  Rome." 

There  was  scarcely  a  sermon  he  preached  in  which 
the  Vicar  lost  opportunity  for  such  attacks  as  these. 
He  seemed  to  fear  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  as  a 
man  fears  the  alluring  attractions  of  an  unscrupulous 
woman.  From  the  eminence  of  his  pulpit,  he  would 
have  cursed  it  if  he  could  and,  firmly  as  she  had  been 
brought  up  to  disapprove  of  the  Romish  doctrines, 
Mary  often  found  in  her  mind  a  wonder  of  this  fear  of 
his,  an  inclination  to  suspect  the  power  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church. 

From  that  moment,  fully  anticipating  all  they  were 
going  to  be  told,  her  mind  became  listless.  She  looked 
about  her  to  see  if  the  Mainwarings  were  in  Church. 
Often  there  were  moments  in  the  sermon  when  she 
would  catch  the  old  General's  eye  which  for  her  ap- 
preciation would  lift  heavenwards  with  a  solemn  ex- 
pression of  patient  forbearance. 

They  lived  too  far  out  of  Bridnorth.     It  was  not  to 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

be  expected  they  would  have  walked  all  that  distance  in 
the  snow.  Her  eyes  had  scarcely  turned  back  from 
their  empty  pew  when  the  Vicar's  words  arrested  her 
again. 

"  Because  Mary  was  the  sinless  mother  of  Our 
Lord,"  he  was  saying,  "  is  no  justification  for  us  to 
direct  our  prayers  to  her.  For  this  is  what  it  is  nec- 
essary for  us  to  understand.  It  is  necessary  for  us  to 
understand  that  Mary  was  the  mother  of  Our  Lord's 
manhood.  His  divinity  comes  from  God  alone. 
What  is  the  Trinity  to  which  we  attach  our  faith  ?  It 
is  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  three  in 
one.  Mary,  the  Virgin,  has  no  place  here  and  it  is  be- 
yond this  in  our  thoughts  of  worship  we  have  no  power 
or  authority  to  go. 

"  The  Roman  Catholic  Church  claims  the  mediation 
of  the  Virgin  Mary  between  the  hearts  of  its  people 
and  the  divine  throne  of  God,  Lest  we  should  drift 
into  such  distress  of  error  as  that,  let  us  understand  the 
mystery  of  the  Immaculate  Conception,  however  much 
as  a  mystery  we  allow  it  to  be  beyond  our  comprehen- 
sion. Being  the  Son  of  God,  Christ  must  have  been 
born  without  sin,  yet  being  the  Son  of  Man,  He  must, 
with  His  manhood,  have  shared  all  the  inheritance  of 
suffering  which  is  the  accompaniment  of  our  earthly 
life.  How  else  could  He  have  been  tempted  in  the 
Wilderness?  How  else  could  He  have  passed  through 
His  agony  on  the  Cross? 

"  To  what  conclusion  then  are  we  thus  led  ?  It  is  to 
the  conclusion  that  Mary,  the  Mother  of  that  manhood 

42 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

in  Christ,  must  have  suffered  as  all  women  suffer. 
She  had  found  favor  with  God ;  but  the  Angel  did  not 
say  she  had  found  immunity  from  that  nature  which, 
being  born  in  sin  as  are  we  all,  was  her  inevitable  por- 
tion. 

"  So,  lest  we  fall  into  the  temptation  of  raising  her 
in  dignity  to  the  very  throne  of  God,  lest  we  succumb 
to  the  false  teaching  of  those  who  would  address  their 
prayers  to  her,  it  becomes  incumbent  upon  us  to  see  the 
Virgin  Mary  in  a  clear  and  no  uncertain  light.  Mys- 
tery in  her  conception  there  must  always  be,  but  in 
her  giving  birth  in  that  manger  of  Bethlehem,  it  is  as 
Mary  the  wife  of  Joseph,  the  carpenter  of  Nazareth,  we 
must  regard  her." 

To  all  those  present  in  the  congregation  this  was  no 
more  than  one  of  the  many  tirades  the  Vicar  had  so 
often  preached  against  the  Roman  Catholic  Church. 
They  listened  as  they  had  always  listened  before,  with 
patience  but  without  interest.  It  was  no  real  matter 
of  concern  to  them.  They  had  no  desire  to  be  con- 
verted. They  had  not  in  the  silence  of  their  homes 
been  reading  the  works  of  Roman  Catholic  authorities 
as  the  Vicar  had  done.  They  did  not  entertain  the 
spirit  of  rivalry  or  feel  the  sense  of  competition  as  he 
felt  it.  They  listened  because  it  was  their  duty  to 
listen  and  one  and  all  of  them  except  Mary,  thinking  of 
their  warm  firesides,  hoped  that  he  would  soon  make  an 
end. 

Only  Mary  amongst  them  all  sat  now  with  heart  and 
mind  attentive  to  what  he  said,  pursuing  not  the  mean- 

43 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

ing  he  intended  to  convey,  but  a  train  of  thought,  the 
sudden  illumination  of  an  idea  which  yet  she  dared  not 
find  words  in  her  consciousness  to  express. 

"  We  must  think  of  her,"  the  Vicar  continued,  "  as 
a  woman  passing  through  the  hours  of  her  travail. 
We  must  think  of  her  brought  in  secret  haste  by  the 
fear  of  consequence  and  the  expedience  of  necessity  to 
that  manger  in  Bethlehem,  where,  upon  her  bed  of 
straw,  with  the  cattle  all  about  her  in  their  stalls,  she 
gave  birth  to  a  man  child  in  all  the  suffering  and  all 
the  pain  it  is  the  lot  of  women  to  endure.  For  here 
is  the  origin  of  that  manhood  in  which  we  must  place 
our  faith  if  we  are  to  appreciate  the  fullness  of  sacri- 
fice our  Savior  made  upon  the  Cross.  It  was  a 
woman,  as  any  one  of  you,  who  was  the  mother  of 
Our  Lord.  A  woman,  blessed  above  all  women  to  be 
the  link  between  the  divinity  of  God  the  Father  and 
the  manhood  of  God  the  Son.  It  was  a  woman  who 
had  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  her  Creator,  such  favor 
as  had  sought  her  out  to  be  the  instrument  of  the  will 
and  mercy  of  God. 

"  And  the  Angel  said  unto  her  — '  Fear  not,  Mary, 
for  thou  hast  found  favor  with  God.' ' 

So  often  had  Mary's  name  been  repeated  that  by  now 
no  association  was  left  in  Fanny's  mind  with  her  sis- 
ter. She  turned  and  looked  at  her  no  more.  But  to 
Mary  herself,  with  this  last  reiteration  of  all,  the  sound 
of  it  throbbed  in  every  vein  and  beat  in  violent  echoes 
in  her  heart.  For  now  no  longer  could  she  keep  back 
the  conscious  words  that  sought  expression  of  those 

44 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

thoughts  in  her  mind.  She  knew  beyond  concealment 
the  idea  which  had  forced  itself  in  a  suspicion  upon  her 
acceptance. 

In  all  his  eagerness  to  lead  their  minds  away  from 
worship  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  the  Vicar  had  destroyed 
for  her  every  shred  of  that  mystery  it  had  been  his 
earnest  intention  to  maintain.  Now  indeed  it  seemed 
she  did  understand  and  nothing  was  left  that  lay  be- 
yond her  comprehension. 

It  was  the  woman,  as  he  had  urged  them,  whom  she 
saw,  the  woman  on  her  bed  of  straw,  with  that  look  in 
the  eyes,  the  look  of  a  woman  waiting  for  her  hour 
which  often  she  had  seen  in  the  eyes  of  others  it  had 
been  her  duty  to  visit  in  Bridnorth.  It  was  the  woman, 
eager  and  suffering,  with  that  eagerness  she  sometimes 
had  felt  as  though  it  were  a  vision  seen  within  herself. 
He  had  substituted  a  woman  —  just  such  a  woman  it 
might  be  as  herself. 

And  here  it  was  then  that  the  thought  leapt  upon  her 
like  some  ambushed  thing,  bearing  her  down  beneath 
its  weight;  beating  at  her  heart,  lacerating  her  mind 
so  that  she  knew  she  never  in  any  time  to  come  could 
hide  from  herself  the  scars  it  made. 

"  If  she  had  suffered,"  Mary  asked  herself  — "  must 
she  not  also  have  known  ?  "  And  then,  shaking  her 
with  the  terror  of  its  blasphemy,  there  sprang  upon  her 
mind  the  words  — 

"  Who  was  the  father  of  the  Son  of  Man?  " 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Son  and  of 
the  Holy  Ghost !  "  a  voice  intoned  in  a  far  distance  and 

45 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

with  all  the  others  she  rose  automatically  to  her  feet. 
Her  eyes  were  glazed.  She  scarcely  could  see  the 
Vicar  as  he  descended  from  the  pulpit.  Her  heart 
was  thumping  in  her  breast.  She  could  hear  only 
that. 


THEY  walked  home  in  groups  and  in  couples 
when  the  service  was  over.     Only  Fanny  kept 
alone.     A  verse  of  poetry  was  building  itself 
in   her   mind.     One    couplet    already   had    formed   a 
rounded  phrase.     It  had  been  revolving  in  her  thoughts 
all  through  the  sermon.     Round  and  about  she  had 
beaten  it  as  with  a  pestle  in  a  mortar  until  she  had 
pounded  it  into  shape. 

"  Were  all  the  trees  as  green  to  you 
As  they  were  green  to  me  ? " 

It  was  not  so  much  what  rhymed  with  "  you  "  or 
"  me  "  that  was  troubling  her  as  what  more  she  could 
continue  to  make  the  full  matter  of  her  verse.  She 
could  think  of  no  more.  The  whole  substance  of  life 
was  summed  up  in  those  two  lines  to  her.  She  walked 
alone  that  morning,  cutting  words  to  a  measure  that 
would  not  meet  and  had  no  meaning. 

Mary  walked  with  Jane.  The  sound  of  the  voice  and 
the  laughter  of  others  behind  her  in  that  sharp  air 
was  like  the  breaking  of  china  falling  upon  a  floor  as 
hard  as  that  beaten  snow  beneath  their  feet.  She  was 
still  in  an  amaze  with  the  bewilderment  of  what  she 
had  thought.  Every  long-trained  sense  in  her  was 

47 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

horrified  at  the  knowledge  of  its  blasphemy.  She 
tried  to  believe  she  had  never  thought  it.  To  induce 
that  belief,  she  would  have  persuaded  herself  if  she 
could  that  the  Vicar  had  never  preached  his  sermon, 
that  it  was  not  to  church  they  had  been,  that  it  was  all 
a  dream,  horrible  and  more  vivid  than  life  itself,  but  a 
dream. 

For  life  was  peaceful  and  sweet  enough  there  in 
Bridnorth.  Notwithstanding  the  song  the  hoofs  of  the 
coach  horses  had  always  beaten  out  for  her  on  the 
roads,  she  had  been  well  content  with  it.  Often  doubt- 
less the  call  of  life  had  come  to  her  there  beyond  the 
hill;  it  came  with  its  cry  of  pain  and  joy,  its  voice  of 
sorrow  as  well  as  happiness.  But  now,  here  amongst 
the  peace  and  the  sweetness,  where  none  of  these  vital 
contrasts  had  ever  existed,  there  had  come  something 
more  terrible  than  pain,  more  cruel  and  relentless  than 
sorrow. 

In  moments  she  was  astonished  at  herself  that  she 
did  not  dismiss  it  all  with  one  sweep  of  her  mind,  dis- 
miss it  all  as  lies  and  blasphemy,  as  machinations  of 
the  Devil  himself.  For  what  was  the  good  just  of 
telling  herself  it  was  a  dream,  of  pretending  to  hide 
her  thoughts  from  it  as  though  it  were  not  there?  It 
was  there !  She  had  thought  it  and  so  had  the  thought 
come  to  her  like  a  light  suddenly  in  dark  corners,  that 
she  knew  it  was  true.  Never  now  could  she  cast  out 
its  significance  from  the  processes  of  her  mind.  In 
the  desperate  fear  that  the  very  foundations  of  her  re- 
ligious beliefs  were  shaken,  she  might  buttress  her 

48 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

faith  with  the  determined  exclusion  of  all  blasphemy 
in  her  thoughts.  Never  again  might  she  allow  her 
mind  to  dwell  upon  the  origin  of  the  manhood  of  that 
figure  of  Christ,  still  dearer  to  her  than  life  itself. 
With  persistent  effort  of  will,  she  knew  she  could  make 
blind  her  vision  of  that  scene  in  the  manger  at  Beth- 
lehem which  the  Vicar  in  his  ignorance  and  the  petti- 
ness of  his  apprehensions  had  conjured  forth  so  clearly 
in  her  sight. 

All  this  she  might  do,  clinging  to  the  faith  in  which 
she  had  been  brought  up ;  but  never  could  she  efface  the 
change  which  in  those  few  moments  had  been  made  in 
her.  How  could  she  know  so  soon  what  that  change 
might  be?  She  knew  only  it  was  there.  She  was  a 
different  being.  Already  she  felt  apart  and  aloof 
from  her  sisters.  Even  Jane,  walking  there  beside  her, 
appeared  at  a  strange  distance  in  which  was  a  clearer 
light  for  her  to  see  by,  a  crystal  atmosphere  through 
which  she  could  distinguish  nothing  but  the  truth. 

Suddenly  as  they  walked  together,  these  two  in  si- 
lence, Jane  looked  up  and  said  — 

"  I  wish  some  one  would  kill  that  bee  in  the  Vicar's 
bonnet.  As  if  there  was  the  slightest  chance  of  any  of 
us  becoming  Roman  Catholics !  " 

It  was  like  Jane,  that  remark.  Suddenly  Mary 
knew  how  like  it  was.  But  more  she  knew  in  that  mo- 
ment the  change  had  not  come  to  her  sisters.  They 
had  not  seen  what  she  had  seen.  No  vision  such  as 
hers  had  been  vouchsafed  to  them.  Still  they  were 
happy,  contented,  and  at  peace  in  their  garden  of  Eden. 

49 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

It  was  she  alone  who  had  tasted  of  the  fruit ;  she  alone 
who  now  had  knowledge  of  good  and  evil. 

Already  she  felt  the  edge  of  the  sword  of  the  angel 
of  God  turned  against  her.  The  gates  of  that  garden 
they  lived  in  were  opened.  In  the  deep  consciousness 
of  her  heart  she  felt  she  was  being  turned  away.  How 
it  would  difference  her  life,  where  she  should  go  now 
that  she  had  been  driven  forth,  what  even  the  world 
outside  those  gates  might  be,  she  did  not  know. 

All  she  realized  was  that  for  twenty-nine  years  a 
Mary  Throgmorton  had  been  living  in  Bridnorth,  that 
now  she  had  gone  and  another  Mary  Throgmorton  had 
taken  her  place. 

Looking  down  at  Jane  beside  her  when  she  spoke, 
she  saw  for  the  first  time  a  sad  figure  of  a  woman, 
shrivelled  and  dried  of  heart,  bitter  and  resentful  of 
mind.  No  longer  was  she  the  Jane  who,  with  her 
sharp  tongue,  had  often  made  them  laugh,  who,  with 
her  shrewd  criticisms  had  often  shown  them  their  little 
weaknesses  and  the  pettiness  of  their  thoughts.  In 
place  of  her  she  saw  a  woman  wilted  and  seared,  a 
body  parched  with  the  need  of  the  moisture  of  life ;  one 
who  had  been  cut  from  the  tree  to  wither  and  decay, 
one,  the  thought  then  sprang  upon  her,  who  had  never 
found  favor  with  God  or  man. 


XI 

THEY  came  loitering'to  the  square,  white  house, 
pausing  at  the  gate  and  talking  to  friends, 
lingering  over  the  removal  of  their  goloshes 
indoors.  The  crisp  air  was  in  their  lungs.  There 
was  the  scent  of  cooking  faintly  in  the  hall.  It  rose 
pleasantly  in  their  nostrils.  They  laughed  and  chatted 
like  a  nestful  of  starlings.  Jane  was  more  amusing 
than  usual.  Her  comments  upon  the  hat  bought  by  the 
police  sergeant's  wife  in  Exeter  and  worn  that  Sunday 
morning  for  the  first  time  were  shrewd  and  close  of 
observation;  too  close  to  be  kind,  yet  so  shrewd  as  to 
prick  even  the  soft  heart  of  Hannah  to  laughter  she 
would  have  restrained  if  she  could. 

Even  Fanny,  with  mind  still  beating  out  her  meters, 
lost  that  far-off  look  in  her  eyes  and  lingered  in  the 
hall  to  listen  to  Jane's  sallies,  to  every  one  of  which 
Hannah  would  murmur  between  her  laughter  — 

"  Jane !  Jane  —  how  can  you  ?  Fancy  your  notic- 
ing that !  Oh  dear !  we  oughtn't  to  be  laughing  at  all. 
Poor  thing !  She  can't  help  her  eye  or  her  figure." 

"  If  I  were  fat,"  said  Jane,  "  I  wouldn't  go  in  stripes. 
You  don't  put  hoops  round  a  barrel  to  make  it  look 
thin." 

Foolish  though  that  might  have  sounded  in  London 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

drawing-rooms,  it  found  a  burst  of  laughter  in  the 
square,  white  house. 

On  her  knees  above,  upstairs  in  her  bedroom,  Mary 
heard  the  noise  of  it.  She  could  guess  well  the  kind 
of  remark  from  Jane  that  had  evoked  it.  Until  those 
moments  Jane  had  been  a  source  of  amusement  to  her 
as  much  as  to  any  of  them.  She  was  a  source  of 
amusement  no  longer.  Even  there  on  her  knees  with 
the  sound  of  their  laughter  far  away  in  the  distance  of 
the  house,  it  was  that  sad  figure  of  a  woman,  shrivelled 
and  dried,  bitter  with  the  need  of  sun  to  ripen  her,  that 
came  before  her  eyes. 

Then  what  were  the  others  ?  With  this  new  vision, 
she  dreaded  to  think  that  she  in  time  must  look 
at  them.  What  thoughts  to  have  on  one's  knee! 
What  thoughts  to  bring  into  the  sight  and  mind  of 
God! 

She  had  come  there  alone  to  her  bedroom  to  pray  — 
but  what  for?  How  could  prayer  help?  Could  she 
by  prayer  make  numb  and  dead  the  motion  of  her 
mind?  By  prayer  could  she  silence  her  thoughts,  in- 
ducing oblivion  as  a  drug  could  induce  sleep  ? 

Hastening  away  alone  to  her  bedroom,  she  had  hoped 
she  could.  Even  then  she  cherished  the  belief  of  all 
she  had  been  taught  of  the  efficacy  of  prayer.  But 
having  fallen  upon  her  knees  at  her  bedside,  what  could 
she  pray?  Nothing. 

"  Oh  —  God,  my  heavenly  Father,"  she  began,  and 
staring  before  her  with  rigid  eyes  at  the  pillow  on  her 
bed  it  became  a  twisted  bundle  of  stravr  on  which  for 

52 


poor  comfort  rested  the  pale  face  of  a  woman  patient 
and  enduring  in  her  hour. 

How  could  prayer  put  away  such  visions  as  these? 
With  conscious  muscular  effort  she  closed  her  eyes 
and  began  repeating  in  a  voice  her  ears  could  hear  — 
"  Our  Father  which  art  in.  Heaven,  hallowed  be  Thy 
name." 

So  she  would  have  decoyed  herself  into  the  attitude 
of  mind  of  prayer,  but  the  sound  of  laughter  in  the 
house  broke  in  upon  the  midst  of  it.  She  saw  that 
thin,  withered  woman  in  whom  the  sap  of  life  had 
dried  to  pith,  and,  casting  away  the  formula  of  sup- 
plication, her  voice  had  cried  out  for  understanding  of 
it  all. 

"  Something's  all  wrong !  "  she  said  aloud  as  though 
one  were  there  in  the  room  beside  her  to  hear  and  op- 
pose her  accusations.  "  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  I've 
never  thought  it  was  wrong  before.  And  perhaps 
after  all  it's  I  who  am  wrong." 

She  knew  what  she  meant  by  that.  Wrong  she 
might  insist  it  was  for  her  to  have  thought  what  she 
thought  in  church.  And  yet  some  quality  of  delibera- 
tion seemed  necessary  to  compose  the  substance  of  evil. 
What  deliberation  had  there  been  in  her?  Out  of  the 
even  and  placid  monotony  of  life  had  shrilled  this  voice 
into  her  heart. 

"  Who  was  the  father  of  the  Son  of  Man?  " 

She  had  not  beckoned  the  voice.  It  had  lifted  out 
of  nowhere  above  the  soulless  intonation  of  the  Vicar's 
sermon.  But  what  was  more,  now  once  she  had  heard 

53 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

it,  it  appeared  as  though  it  long  had  been  waiting  to 
cry  its  message  in  her  ears.  She  wondered  why  she 
had  never  heard  it  before.  For  twenty-nine  years  she 
realized  as  she  knelt  there  on  her  knees,  she  had  been 
little  more  than  a  child.  Now  in  the  lateness  of  the 
day  she  was  a  woman,  knowing  more  of  the  world  than 
ever  she  would  have  learnt  by  experience. 

The  deeper  purposes  of  life  they  were  that  had  come 
without  seeking  upon  her  imagination.  It  was  not  this 
or  that  she  knew  about  women,  not  this  or  that  which 
had  come  in  revelation  to  her  about  men.  Only  that 
there  was  a  meaning  within  herself,  pitiably  and  almost 
shamefully  unfulfilled.  Something  there  was  wrong 
—  all  wrong.  Half  she  suspected  in  herself  what  it 
was.  For  those  few  moments  as  they  walked  back 
from  church,  she  had  caught  actual  sight  of  it  in  her 
sister  Jane. 

Would  she  discern  it  in  the  others?  Discovering  it 
in  them  would  she  know  what  it  was  in  her?  Why 
was  she  on  her  knees  for  thoughts  like  this  ?  This  was 
not  prayer.  She  could  not  pray. 

The  sound  of  the  bell  downstairs  raised  her  slowly 
to  her  feet.  She  took  off  her  hat  and  laid  it  on  the 
bed.  Automatically  she  crossed  to  the  mirror  and  be- 
gan to  tidy  her  hair. 

Was  there  anything  in  her  face  that  made  her  heart 
beat  the  faster?  She  stood  looking  at  her  reflection, 
pondering  that  there  was  not.  What  beauty  of  color 
was  there  in  her  cheeks?  What  line  of  beauty  in  her 
lips  ?  And  why  did  she  look  for  these  things  and  why, 

54 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

when  behind  her  eyes  she  saw  something  in  her  mind 
she  dared  not  speak,  did  her  heart  set  up  a  beating  in 
every  pulse? 

With  a  gesture  of  impatient  self-rebuke,  she  turned 
away  and  went  downstairs. 


XII 

JANE  carved.  As  their  father  had  always  done, 
she  still  gave  them  just  portions  of  fat  so  that 
the  joint  might  evenly  be  consumed.  There 
was  not  the  same  necessity  to  eat  it  when  it  was  hot  as 
there  had  been  when  Mr.  Throgmorton  was  alive;  yet 
even  still,  Fanny  with  an  unconquerable  distaste  for 
it,  did  her  best  to  leave  a  clean  plate. 

When  Mary  came  in,  they  were  already  seated  at  the 
table.  Hannah  had  said  grace.  They  all  asked  where 
she  had  been. 

"  Tidying  up,"  said  she,  and  pulling  out  her  chair, 
sat  down,  beginning  her  meal  at  once  with  her  eyes 
steady  upon  her  plate.  Fanny  was  opposite  to  her. 
Being  the  eldest,  Hannah  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
With  the  new  vision  of  mind  that  had  come  to  her, 
there  were  long  moments  before  Mary  could  determine 
to  raise  her  head  and  look  at  them.  It  was  sufficient  to 
hear  them  talking.  The  subject  of  Christmas  presents 
was  monopolizing  the  conversation.  They  were  all  go- 
ing in  to  Exeter  for  a  day's  shopping  if  the  roads  per- 
mitted. Mary  found  herself  caught  in  astonishment 
at  the  apparent  note  of  happiness  in  their  voices. 

Were  they  happy  after  all?  Had  she  herself  be- 
come morbid  and  supersensitive  with  the  sudden  unex- 

56 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

pectedness  of  her  revelation?  Was  it  all  a  mood? 
Would  she  wake  on  the  morrow  after  a  night  of  sleep, 
finding  the  whole  aspect  of  life  set  back  again  to  its  old 
focus  ? 

In  a  sudden  hope  and  expectancy  that  it  might  be  so, 
she  raised  her  head  and  looked  across  the  table  at  Fanny 
seated  there  with  the  full  light  of  the  window  on  her 
face. 

It  was  a  moment  when,  in  a  pause  of  the  conversa- 
tion, Fanny's  thoughts  had  slipped  back  to  the  labor  of 
her  verses. 

"  Were  ever  the  trees  so  green  to  you 
As  they  were  green  to  me  ?  " 

The  strained  expression  of  fretted  composition  was 
settled  on  her  forehead.  The  far-off  look  of  a  mem- 
ory clutching  at  the  past  was  a  pain  in  her  eyes.  In 
every  outline  and  feature  of  her  pale,  thin  face  were 
the  unmistakable  signs  of  the  utter  weariness  of  her 
soul. 

In  that  one  glance,  Mary  knew  her  vision  was  true. 
It  was  no  mood.  All  those  signs  of  fatigue  she  had 
seen  in  Fanny's  face  again  and  again.  It  was  her 
health,  she  had  often  said  to  herself.  Fanny  was  not 
strong.  Ill-health  it  might  have  been,  but  the  root  of 
the  evil  was  in  her  spirit,  not  in  her  blood. 

Sitting  there  opposite,  as  in  all  the  countless  times 
from  childhood  upwards  she  had  seen  her,  it  was  an- 
other Fanny  —  the  real  Fanny  —  she  beheld,  just  as 
she  knew  now  it  was  the  real  Jane.  These  three  sis- 

57 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

ters  of  hers,  suddenly  they  had  all  become  real.  Han- 
nah with  her  heart  more  in  the  flow  of  the  Bridnorth 
stream,  to  the  smooth  round  edges  of  contentment, 
each  one  of  them  in  her  turn  they  were  presented 
with  their  new  significance  in  her  eyes. 

But  it  was  Fanny  most  of  all  in  whom  she  felt  full 
sense  of  the  tragedy  of  circumstance.  That  episode  of 
the  visitor  to  Bridnorth  came  now  with  a  fresh  mean- 
ing upon  Mary's  mind.  They  had  all  felt  deeply  sorry 
for  Fanny  at  the  time,  but  one  and  all  they  had  agreed 
she  had  had  a  lucky  escape. 

Was  it  such  a  lucky  escape  after  all?  Did  Fanny 
regard  it  in  that  light?  Could  they  be  considered 
fortunate  who  escaped  from  life  however  it  might 
wound  and  ill-treat  them? 

Mary  realized  as  she  sat  there,  fascinated  by  the 
terribleness  of  her  thoughts,  that  they  all  had  escaped 
from  life.  Not  in  one  of  them  had  there  been  the  mo- 
ment's fulfillment  of  their  being.  They  were  women, 
but  it  was  not  as  women  they  had  lived.  One  by  one 
the  purpose  of  life  was  running  slower  in  their  veins. 
She  with  the  rest  of  them.  Her  turn  would  come. 
First  she  would  become  a  Fanny,  tired  with  waiting. 
That  eager  look  of  a  spirit  hunger  would  come  into  her 
eyes,  alternating  as  events  came  and  passed  her  by 
with  those  dull,  dead  shadows  of  fatigue.  Hope  she 
would  cling  to  as  a  blind  man  to  the  string  that  is 
knotted  to  the  collar  of  his  dog.  Hope,  becoming 
fainter  and  weaker  year  by  year,  would  lead  her  until, 
as  with  Jane,  bitter  and  seared  and  dry  of  heart,  she 

58 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

sought  its  services  no  more.  Still  like  the  blind  man 
then  she  would  beat  with  her  stick  up  and  down 
the  unchanging  pavements  of  her  life  till  at  last 
with  Hannah  she  found  a  numbed  contentment  in  her 
k>t. 

Something  indeed,  as  she  had  cried  up  there  alone 
in  her  room,  something  was  wrong.  She  had  come  as 
just  a  few  women  do  to  that  conscious  realization. 
But  her  vision  had  not  power  to  show  her  what  it 
was.  In  those  moments  it  never  occurred  to  her  to 
raise  her  eyes  to  the  portrait  of  her  father  on  the  wall. 
She  was  not  didactic  enough  of  mind  to  argue  it  with 
herself  or  trace  the  origin  of  those  conventions  which 
had  bound  and  stiH  were  binding  the  lives  of  those 
three  women  her  eyes  were  watching. 

Something  was  wrong.  Vaguely  she  sensed  it  was 
the  waste  of  life.  It  was  beyond  the  function  of  her 
mind  to  follow  the  reason  of  that  wastage  to  its  source. 
Her  process  of  thought  could  not  seek  out  the  social 
laws  that  had  woven  themselves  about  the  lives  of 
women  until,  so  much  were  they  the  slaves  of  the  law, 
that  they  would  preach  it,  earnestly,  fervently,  be- 
lievingly  as  her  mother  had  done. 

Something  was  wrong.  That  was  just  all  she  knew ; 
but  in  those  moments,  she  knew  it  well.  There  were 
those  three  women  about  her  to  prove  how  wrong  it 
was.  There  was  she  herself  nearing  that  phase  when 
the  wrong  would  be  done  to  her,  and  she  would  be 
powerless  as  they  had  been  to  prevent  it. 

"  Fear  not,  Mary  — "  it  was  as  though  she  heard  a 

59 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

voice  beckoning  within  her  — "  Fear  not,  Mary,  for 
thou  hast  found  favor  with  God." 

Ever  since  they  had  come  to  an  age  of  understand- 
ing, their  spirits  had  been  warped  and  twisted  with  the 
formalities  of  life.  To  fit  the  plan  of  those  laws  man 
makes  by  force,  they  had  been  bent  in  their  growing 
to  the  pattern  of  his  needs.  It  was  those  needs  of  his 
that  had  invented  the  forced  virtues  of  their  modesty 
and  self-respect,  beneath  the  pressure  of  which  he  kept 
them  as  he  required  them,  trained  and  set  back  to  ful- 
fill the  meaning  of  his  self-centered  purpose. 

Modesty  and  self-respect,  surely  these  were  qualities 
of  all,  of  men  as  well  as  women.  By  unnatural  tem- 
peratures to  force  them  in  their  growth  was  to  produce 
exotic  flowers  having  none  of  the  simple  sweetness  of 
sun-given  odors  in  their  scent. 

As  life  was  meant,  it  grew  in  the  open  spaces ;  it  was 
an  upright  tree,  spreading  its  green  boughs  under  the 
pure  light  of  heaven.  There  was  nothing  artificial 
about  life.  It  was  free. 

It  was  the  favor  of  God.  That  was  the  truth  she 
had  come  by  and  with  her  eyes  marking  that  weary 
look  of  resignation  in  Fanny's  face,  she  knew  she 
would  not  fear  it  whenever  or  however  it  came. 

This  was  the  seed,  planted  in  the  heart  of  Mary 
Throgmorton,  which  in  its  season  was  to  bring  forth 
and,  for  the  life  of  the  woman  she  was,  bear  the  fruit 
of  her  being. 


PHASE  II 


I  . 

IT  was  in  the  summer  of  1895  that  Julius  Liddiard 
came  to  Bridnorth.  He  came  alone,  having  en- 
gaged rooms  at  the  White  Hart. 

From  the  Throgmorton  windows  he  was  observed 
descending  at  the  George  Hotel  when,  with  a  glance  at 
Mary,  it  was  announced  by  Jane  that  he  played  golf. 
As  he  slung  a  bulky  satchel  over  his  shoulder,  Fanny 
surmised  him  to  be  an  artist,  entertaining  for  a  swift 
moment  as  it  sped  across  her  mind,  a  vision  of  herself 
sitting  beside  him,  watching  his  sketches  with  absorb- 
ing interest  as  they  came  to  life  beneath  his  brush. 

It  remained  with  Jane  to  make  the  final  observation 
as,  accompanied  by  a  man  carrying  his  trunk,  he  passed 
the  windows  on  his  way  back  to  the  White  Hart. 

"  Has  his  suit  case  polished,"  she  said.  "  He's  not 
an  artist.  Paints  for  fun.  Probably  has  a  valet. 
Too  wealthy  for  the  likes  of  Bridnorth.  Comes  here 
to  be  alone." 

If  judging  the  facts  of  appearance  leads  to  a  concept 
of  truth,  these  observations  of  Jane  were  shrewdly  ac- 
curate. Time,  during  the  first  week,  proved  the  sound- 
ness of  their  deduction. 

He  was  seen  by  Fanny  on  the  cliff's  edge  above  the 
bay,  painting  with  pleasing  amateurish  results  and  so 

63 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

engrossed  in  his  work  as  scarcely  to  notice  her  pres- 
ence. She  had  looked  over  his  shoulder  as  she  passed. 
She  was  no  critic  but  had,  what  is  more  common  to 
find,  the  candor  of  ill-formed  opinion. 

"  It  was  not  bad,"  she  said  — "  rather  slobbery.  It 
was  running  all  over  the  paper.  Fr'aps  he  pulls  it  to- 
gether. Course  I  didn't  stop." 

Jane's  eyes  narrowed.  It  was  superfluous  to  say 
she  did  not  stop.  That  was  one  of  Fanny's  lies;  one 
of  the  lies  all  women  tell  which  record  their  conscious 
intentions  while  they  belie  the  subconscious  things 
they  do.  She  had  not  meant  to  stop.  It  was  obvious 
to  Jane  that  she  did.  Her  next  words  proved  it. 

"  Can't  understand,"  she  said,  "  how  any  one  can 
become  so  engrossed,  messing  about  with  paints  on  a 
piece  of  paper." 

She  had  stopped  and  he  had  not  noticed  her. 
After  a   week  had  passed,   Mary  came  back  one 
evening   from  the  golf  club.     They  were  all  having 
tea. 

"  His  name's  Liddiard,"  she  said  casually  in  the 
midst  of  a  silence,  and  they  all  knew  to  whom  she  al- 
luded and  what  had  occurred. 

Questions  poured  upon  her  then  from  all  but  Han- 
nah, who  went  on  eating  her  pieces  of  bread  and  but- 
ter, letting  her  eyes  wander  from  one  to  another  as 
they  spoke. 

She  informed  them  of  all  she  had  gathered  about  him 
during  their  game  of  golf,  but  gave  her  information 
only  under  pressure  of  their  questioning. 

64 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Ever  since  her  eyes  had  penetrated  the  veil  that  for 
so  long  had  hidden  her  sisters  from  her,  Mary  had 
resented,  while  so  well  she  understood,  their  curiosity 
about  the  visitors  who  came  to  Bridnorth.  There 
were  times  when  it  almost  ha'd  a  savor  of  indecency 
to  her;  times  when  she  felt  her  cheeks  grow  warm  at 
the  ill-hidden  purpose  of  their  interest;  times  when  it 
seemed  to  her  as  though  Fanny,  revealing  her  soul,  had 
dressed  it  in  diaphanous  garments  which  almost  were 
immodest  in  their  transparent  flimsiness. 

She  knew  Fanny's  soul  now.  She  knew  the  souls 
of  all  of  them.  She  knew  her  own  and  often  she 
prayed  that  however  Fate  might  treat  her,  even  if  as  it 
now  treated  them,  she  still  would  keep  it  secret  and 
hidden  from  eyes  that  were  not  meant  to  see. 

"  He  comes  from  Somerset,"  she  told  them.  "  He 
has  a  large  estate  there.  Something  like  two  thousand 
acres  and  I  suppose  a  big  house.  No  —  does  nothing. 
I  expect  looking  after  a  place  like  that  is  work  enough. 
Farms  himself,  I  believe  —  the  way  he  speaks  about 
it.  Yes  —  married." 

Jane  thought  the  annoyance  with  which  she  gave  it 
out  was  upon  her  own  account.  There  was  a  smile  in 
her  eyes  when  Mary  admitted  it,  as  though  her  re- 
joinder might  have  been  — "  What  a  suck  for  you." 

Such  good  nature  as  she  had  kept  the  words  from 
utterance.  But  as  well  it  was  that  Mary's  annoyance 
had  really  had  nothing  to  do  with  herself.  Their  ques- 
tion, chimed  from  Fanny  and  Jane  together,  had  made 
the  blood  tingle  in  her  cheeks.  Why  did  they  expose 

65 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

themselves  like  that?  She  would  sooner  have  seen 
them  with  too  short  a  skirt  or  too  low  a  bodice. 
Scarcely  conscious  of  this  shame  in  Mary,  it  yet  had 
had  power  to  hold  back  the  words  from  Jane's  lips. 
Nevertheless  she  credited  it  to  her  virtue. 

"  They  say  I'm  bitter,"  she  thought.  "  They  don't 
know  how  bitter  I  could  be." 

"  Why  isn't  his  wife  with  him?  "  she  asked. 

Mary  professed  complete  indifference  and  ignorance. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  asked  him  ?  "  she  said.  "  Mar- 
riage isn't  a  grazing  in  one  field,  is  it?  Life  isn't  one 
acre  to  everybody." 

How  interestingly  he  must  have  talked  about  his  es- 
tate and  farming.  That  came  leaping  at  once  into 
Jane's  mind.  A  grazing  in  one  field  —  that  was  a  new- 
learnt  phrase  for  Mary.  There  was  little  she  knew 
about  grazing  and  could  not  tell  an  acre  from  a  rood. 

"  How  does  he  play  golf?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Fairly  well." 

"  How  many  strokes  did  he  give  you  ?  " 

"  None  —  we  played  level." 

"What  did  he  win  by?" 

"  I  did  —  two  and  one." 

"  So  you're  going  to  play  again?  " 

"  Well,  of  course.     It  was  a  tight  match." 

Jane  rose  from  the  table  to  go  and  make  out  the 
linen  for  the  laundry.  Fanny  sat  staring  at  the  tea 
leaves  in  the  bottom  of  her  cup.  Hannah  inquired  in 
her  gentle  voice  if  any  one  wanted  the  last  piece  of 
bread  and  butter. 


IT  was  a  closer  observation  than  she  knew  when 
Jane  said  that  Julius  Liddiard  came  to  Bridnorth 
to  be  alone. 

He  was  a  lonely  man.  There  is  that  condition  of 
loneliness  more  insuperable  than  others,  the  loneliness 
of  mind  in  a  body  surrounded  by  the  evidences  of 
companionship.  In  this  condition  he  suffered,  unable 
to  explain,  unable  to  express. 

Much  as  he  loved  it,  in  his  own  home  at  times  he 
felt  a  stranger,  whose  presence  within  its  walls  was 
largely  upon  sufferance.  Mastery,  he  claimed,  exact- 
ing the  purpose  of  his  will,  but  in  the  very  conscious- 
ness that  it  must  be  forced  upon  those  about  him,  he 
felt  his  loneliness  the  more. 

Authority  was  not  his  conception  of  a  home.  He 
had  looked  for  unity,  but  could  not  find  it.  His  wife 
and  her  sister  who  lived  with  them,  the  frequent  visits 
of  their  friends  and  relations,  these  were  the  evidences 
of  a  companionship  that  served  merely  to  drive  him 
further  and  deeper  into  the  lonely  companionship  of 
himself. 

She  had  her  right  to  life,  he  was  forced  in  common 
justice  to  tell  himself,  and  if  she  chose  the  transitory 
gayeties,  finding  more  substance  of  life  in  a  late  night 

67 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

in  London  than  an  early  morning  on  Somersetshire 
downs,  that  was  her  view  of  things  to  which  she  was 
fully  entitled. 

Of  his  own  accord,  he  had  invited  her  sister  to  live 
with  them,  seeking  to  please  her ;  hoping  to  please  him- 
self. She  made  her  home  there.  It  was  too  late 
actually  to  turn  her  away  when  he  had  discovered  the 
habit  of  her  life  was  an  incurable  laziness  which  fretted 
and  jarred  against  the  energies  of  his  mind. 

"  We  make  our  lives,"  he  said,  enigmatically  to 
Mary,  that  first  day  when  they  were  playing  golf. 
"  Lord  knows  what  powers  direct  us.  I  may  make 
the  most  perfect  approach  on  to  this  green,  but  noth- 
ing on  earth  can  tell  me  exactly  which  way  the  ball  is 
going  to  kick." 

He  had  approached  his  life  with  all  the  precision  of 
which  he  was  capable,  but  the  kick  had  come  and  it 
had  come  the  wrong  way.  There  was  no  accounting 
for  its  direction.  It  was  obvious  to  him  he  could  not 
see  the  world  through  his  wife's  eyes.  After  some 
years  it  had  become  no  less  obvious  that  she  could  not 
see  it  through  his. 

He  wandered  through  the  rooms  of  his  own  house,  a 
stranger  to  the  sounds  of  meaningless  laughter  that 
echoed  there.  He  took  his  walking-stick,  called  a  dog 
and  strode  out  on  to  the  downs,  glad  to  be  in  fact 
alone. 

Gradually  such  laughter  as  there  was  in  him  —  he 
had  his  full  share  of  it  —  died  out  of  him.  Much  as 
he  loved  his  wife,  much  as  she  loved  him,  he  knew  he 

68 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

was  becoming  more  and  more  of  a  disappointment  to 
her.  In  the  keener  moments  of  consciousness  of  his 
loneliness,  she  found  him  morose,  until,  unable  to 
sing  or  laugh  with  the  songs'  and  laughter  of  that 
house,  he  came  at  times  to  believe  he  was  morose 
himself. 

"  What's  happening  to  me,"  he  would  say  when  he 
was  alone ;  "  what's  happening  to  me  is  that  I'm  losing 
the  joy  of  life." 

Yet  the  sight  of  the  countryside  at  Springtime 
seemed  to  himself  to  give  him  more  sense  of  joy  than 
all  the  revels  in  London  that  made  his  wife's  eyes  dance 
with  youth. 

He  had  laughed  inordinately  once;  had  won  her 
heart  by  the  compound  of  his  spirits,  grave  and  gay. 
It  was  quite  true  when  she  accused  him  of  becoming 
too  serious-minded.  He  heard  the  absence  of  his 
laughter  and  sometimes  took  himself  away  and  alone 
that  she  might  notice  it  the  less. 

There  were  times  when  it  seemed  she  had  lost  all 
touch  with  his  mind  that  once  had  interested  her.  He 
took  his  mind  away  and  left  his  heart  there  at  Wenlock 
Hall  behind  him. 

What  can  happen  with  a  man's  mind  when  he  holds 
it  alone  in  his  keeping  is  what  happened  to  Julius  Lid- 
diard. 

Jane  was  more  accurate  than  she  knew  when  she  de- 
clared that  he  had  come  to  Bridnorth  to  be  alone. 

It  was  his  intention  to  sketch  and  play  golf  with  the 
professional  until  such  time  as  the  longing  for  his 

69 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

home  again  would  urge  him  back  with  a  mind  ready 
to  ignore  its  disappointments  in  the  joy  of  mating  and 
meeting  with  his  heart  again. 

Upon  his  first  appearance  on  the  golf  links,  the  pro- 
fessional had  disappointed  him.  Mary  Throgmorton 
had  stepped  into  the  breach,  recommended  by  the  sec- 
retary as  being  able  to  give  him  as  good  a  game  as 
many  of  the  members. 

For  the  first  half,  they  had  played  with  little  inter- 
change of  conversation.  As  they  left  the  ninth  green, 
she  was  two  up.  Then  he  had  looked  at  her  with  an 
increasing  interest,  seeing  what  most  men  saw,  the 
strong  shoulders,  the  straight  line  of  her  back,  the  full 
strength  of  her  figure,  the  firm  stance  she  took  as  she 
played  her  game. 

It  was  not  until  after  the  game  was  over  and  they 
sat  at  tea  in  the  Club  Room,  that  he  noticed  her  face 
with  any  interest.  Had  this  observation  been  denied 
him,  he  would  have  gone  away  from  Bridnorth,  de- 
scribing her  as  a  girl  of  the  country,  bred  on  sea  air; 
the  type  of  mother  for  sons  of  Englishmen,  if  ever  she 
found  her  proper  mate. 

But  across  that  tea-table,  his  mind  saw  more.  He 
saw  in  flashes  of  expression  out  of  the  gray  eyes  that 
faced  him,  that  soul  which  Mary  had  only  so  lately 
discovered  in  herself.  He  saw  a  range  of  emotion  that 
could  touch  in  its  flight  the  highest  purpose ;  he  heard 
in  her  voice  the  laughter  his  mind  could  laugh  with, 
the  thoughts  his  mind  could  think  with. 

"  Well,    we've   had    a   good    game,"    he   had    said 

70 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

steadily.  "  Do  you  think  I've  a  chance  of  beating  you 
if  we  play  again  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  like  to  win,"  said  she,  "  if  there's  a  chance  of  be- 
ing beaten.  I  expect  you'll  beat  me  next  time.  You 
don't  know  the  course  yet." 

"  We'll  play  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

And  it  had  been  arranged. 


Ill 

THIS  time  they  played  in  the  morning.     They 
had  a  simple  lunch  of  boiled  eggs  such  as  the 
Club  provided.     It  was  a  common  occurrence 
for  Mary  to  stay  on  the  links  all  day. 

Hannah  thought  nothing  of  her  absence  at  the  mid- 
day meal.  Fanny  thought  a  great  deal,  but  said  no 
word.  Jane,  thinking  little,  casually  questioned  why 
it  was  always  married  men  who  came  to  Bridnorth. 

"  And  invariably  married  men  who  play  golf,"  she 
added.  Indeed  in  those  days  the  younger  men  some- 
what left  the  game  to  their  elders.  "  I  believe  Mary's 
a  bit  of  a  fool,"  she  went  on.  "If  she  really  wanted 
to  marry,  she'd  play  tennis  or  sit  on  the  beach  at  bath- 
ing time.  That  girl  Hyland  got  married  last  year 
throwing  pebbles  at  an  old  bottle.  We've  all  thought 
marriage  was  a  serious  business.  That  was  the  way 
they  brought  us  up."  She  looked  at  her  mother's  por- 
trait. "  That's  what's  been  all  wrong  with  us.  It 
isn't  the  one  who  sits  quietest  who's  chosen.  It's  the 
one  who  fusses  about  and  chooses  for  herself.  You've 
got  to  be  able  to  throw  pebbles  at  glass  bottles  now. 
Crochet  hooks  aren't  any  good.  All  our  chances  have 
been  lost  in  two  purl  and  one  plain.  It's  their  fault, 
both  of  them  —  it's  their  fault." 

72 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Jane  spoke  so  terribly  near  the  truth  sometimes  that 
it  was  agony  for  those  others  to  listen  to  her.  To 
Hannah  it  was  sacrilege  almost,  against  the  spirit  of 
those  still  ruling  in  that  house.  To  Fanny  it  was  no 
sacrilege.  She  too  knew  it  had  been  their  fault.  But 
the  truth  of  it  was  a  whip,  driving  her,  not  that  she 
forgot  her  fatigue,  but  so  as  to  urge  her  on,  stumbling, 
feeling  the  hope  in  her  heart  like  harness  wearing  into 
the  flesh. 

Almost  visibly  she  aged  as  she  listened.  Her  ex- 
pression drooped.  Her  eyes  fixed  in  a  steady  gaze 
upon  Jane's  face  while  she  was  speaking  as  though  the 
weight  of  lead  were  holding  them  from  movement. 

"  Don't  speak  like  that,  Jane !  "  Hannah  exclaimed. 
"  How  can  you  say  it's  their  fault?  They  did  the  very 
best  they  knew  for  us.  Wouldn't  you  sooner  be  as 
you  are  than  like  that  girl  Hyland?  " 

"  She's  got  a  baby  now,"  Jane  replied  imperturbably. 
"  She'll  steady  down.  She's  contributed  more  than  we 
have.  It  isn't  much  when  all  you  can  say  is  that  you've 
given  a  few  old  clothes  to  jumble  sales." 

"  I  know  what  Jane  means,"  said  Fanny.  Her  mem- 
ory had  caught  her  back  to  that  late  evening  on  the 
cliffs  when  she  felt  again,  like  an  internal  wound, 
that  spareness  of  her  body  in  the  arms  which  for  those 
few  moments  had  held  her  close.  "  I  know  what  Jane 
means,"  she  repeated,  and  rose  from  the  table,  leaving 
the  room,  not  waiting  for  her  coffee. 

At  the  Golf  Club  over  their  boiled  eggs  and  the  gritty 
coffee  while  Liddiard  smoked,  they  talked  of  Wenlock 

73 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Hall,  the  history  of  it,  the  farm  and  lands  surrounding 
it,  the  meaning  that  it  had  for  him. 

"  How  many  children  have  you?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  None,"  said  he. 

It  was  a  question  as  to  whether  they  should  play 
the  final  match  that  afternoon.  Each  had  won  a 
game. 

"  Why  get  through  good  things  all  at  once  ?  "  said 
he.  "  That's  a  sky  for  sketching  —  my  sort  of  amia- 
ble sketching.  The  view  across  the  bay  from  that 
Penlock  hill  will  be  wonderful." 

Her  readiness  to  part  with  his  company  for  the  after- 
noon was  simple  and  genuine. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  you're  here  for  a  holiday. 
I  was  getting  selfish.  I  don't  often  get  a  good  game, 
you  see.  We've  plenty  of  opportunity  if,  as  you  say, 
you  don't  go  till  next  week." 

"  Oh,  I  meant  you  to  come  if  you  would,"  he  ex- 
plained quickly.  "  Not  much  fun,  I  know.  But 
there's  the  walk  out  there  and  back  and  I  like  being 
talked  to  while  I'm  painting.  Not  much  of  a  conver- 
sationalist then,  I  admit.  I'm  doing  all  the  selfishness 
—  but  one  doesn't  often  get  the  chance  of  being  talked 
to  —  as  you  talk." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  been  told  that  any 
power  of  interesting  conversation  was  hers.  She  felt 
a  catch  of  excitement  in  her  breath.  When  she  an- 
swered him,  she  could  not  quite  summon  her  voice  to 
speak  on  a  casual  note.  It  sounded  muffled  and  thick, 
as  though  her  heart  were  beating  in  her  throat  and  she 

74 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 


had  to  speak  through  it.  Yet  she  was  not  conscious 
that  it  was. 

"  I'll  come  if  you  really  want  me  to,"  she  said,  and 
her  acceptance  was  neither  eager  nor  restrained.  She 
went  as  freely  as  she  walked  and  she  walked  with  a 
loose,  swinging  stride.  It  became  a  mental  observation 
with  him  as  they  climbed  the  cliff  path,  that  their  steps 
fell  together  with  even  regularity. 

His  sketch  was  a  failure.  The  atmosphere  defied 
him,  or  the  talk  they  made  distracted  his  mind.  He 
threw  the  block  face  downwards  on  the  grass. 

"Oh!  why  do  you  do  that?"  she  asked,  regretting 
consciously  that  which  she  did  not  know  she  was  glad 
of — "  It  looked  as  if  it  were  going  to  be  so  nice." 

"  It  had  got  out  of  hand,"  said  he.  "  They  do,  so 
often.  I  know  when  I  can't  pull  'em  together.  Be- 
sides, talking's  better,  isn't  it?  You  can't  give  your 
whole  interest  to  two  things  at  once." 

How  long  had  they  known  each  other?  Two  days 
—  less !  He  felt  he  had  been  talking  to  her  constantly, 
over  a  long  period  of  time.  She  knew  he  felt  that  and 
was  kept  in  wonder  as  to  what  her  interest  could  be  to 
him. 

Once  definitely  having  put  his  sketch  out  of  his  mind, 
he  lay  back  on  the  close,  sharp-bitten  grass,  looking  no 
more  across  the  bay,  but  talking  to  Mary  about  herself. 
Tentative  and  restrained  as  his  questions  were,  they 
sought  her  out.  She  felt  no  desire  for  concealment, 
but  sat  there,  upright,  as  one  would  most  times  find 
her,  drawing  a  thread  of  sea  grass  backwards  and  for- 

75 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

wards  through  her  fingers,  answering  the  questions  he 
asked,  sometimes  briefly,  sometimes  with  far  excursion 
into  her  mind,  expressing  thoughts  she  scarcely  had 
been  conscious  of  till  then. 

"  You  make  me  a  great  egotist,"  she  said  presently, 
with  a  laugh. 

"Isn't  yours  the  age  for  egotism?"  he  answered. 
"  Why  shouldn't  you  think  about  yourself  when  you're 
young,  and  all's  in  front  of  you?  When  you  come  up 
with  it  you'll  have  no  time." 

"  When  I'm  young,"  she  laughed.  "  You'd  better 
guess  how  old  I  am,"  and  she  laughed  again,  knowing 
what  Hannah  or  Jane  would  think  to  hear  her. 

"  I  don't  want  to  guess,"  said  he.  "  Suppose  you 
were  twenty-eight  —  or  even  thirty,  I  say  all's  in  front 
of  you.  That's  your  age.  That's  the  impression  you 
give  me." 

"  I'm  twenty-nine,"  said  she,  and  her  eyebrow  lifted 
with  suppressed  laughter  as  he  sat  up  in  his  surprise  to 
look  at  her. 

"Twenty-nine?"  he  repeated.  "What  have  you 
been  doing  with  your  life?  Why  are  you  here,  play- 
ing an  occasional  game  of  golf,  attending  mothers' 
meetings,  going  to  your  little  church  every  Sunday  to 
listen  to  that  fool  of  a  parson  you  have  ?  It's  waste  — 
waste  —  utter  waste !  " 

"  Have  you  ever  thought  how  many  women  do  waste 
in  the  world?  "  she  asked  and  then  of  a  sudden  felt  the 
hot  sweep  of  blood  into  her  face.  How  had  it  hap- 
pened she  had  come  to  talk  to  a  man  and  a  stranger  like 

76 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

this  ?  Yet  wasn't  it  true,  and  wasn't  there  some  sort  of 
exciting  satisfaction  in  saying  it?  She  could  not  have 
said  that  to  Hannah,  to  Jane,  not  even  to  Fanny. 
Why  was  it  possible  to  exchange  such  intimate  thoughts 
with  a  man  and  he,  an  utter  stranger  she  had  met  only 
the  day  before? 

Suddenly,  in  the  speaking  of  that  thought,  she  had 
learnt  something  about  herself  and  not  herself  only  but 
about  all  women  and  the  whole  of  life.  All  that  her 
mother  had  taught  her  was  wrong.  Concealment,  de- 
ception, fraud,  these  were  not  the  outward  symbols  of 
modesty.  Just  as  for  the  ailments  of  her  body  she 
could  not  have  gone  to  a  woman  doctor,  so  with  the 
smoldering  fever  of  her  inmost  thoughts,  it  was  only 
to  a  man  she  could  speak. 

Then  did  men  understand?  With  the  rest  of  her 
sex  she  had  always  argued  that  they  did  not.  If  it 
was  not  for  understanding,  then  why  had  she  spoken? 
It  must  be  that  they  understood;  but  not  with  their 
minds,  not  cruelly,  scorchingly,  calculatingly,  as  women 
did,  judging  shrewdly  the  relation  between  character 
and  the  fact  confided,  but  more  spiritually  than  this; 
the  inner  meaning,  the  deeper  purpose,  relating  that 
confidence  to  the  soul  of  the  woman  who  made  it, 
rather  than  to  her  conduct. 

In  that  moment  she  had  learnt  the  indefinable 
complement  between  the  sexes.  In  that  moment, 
Mary  Throgmorton  had  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life  answered  to  the  cry  of  Nature  calling  mate  to 
mate. 

77 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

The  heat  of  the  blood  lifted  in  temperature  in  her 
cheeks  as  she  came  upon  her  knowledge,  but  he  said 
nothing  of  the  flush  that  lingered  in  them.  A  woman 
would  have  noticed  that  and  to  her  shrewd  observation 
they  would  have  burnt  the  more.  As  he  sat  there,  not 
looking  at  her,  but  staring  through  the  pine  trees  across 
the  bay,  she  found  a  feeling  of  comfort  in  being  with 
him  as  her  cheeks  grew  cool  again. 

Never  looking  at  her,  he  asked  if  women  were  con- 
scious of  that  sense  of  waste,  and  the  tone  of  his  voice 
was  neither  searching  nor  inquisitive.  It  had  no  sug- 
gestion of  personal  curiosity  behind  it.  He  spoke 
from  inside  himself,  from  inner  purposes  and  from  the 
inner  purposes  within  herself  she  answered  him,  feel- 
ing no  sense  of  restraint. 

"  Do  you  imagine  they  wouldn't  be  ?  "  she  replied. 
"  Not  perhaps  in  their  everyday  life,  but  in  moments 
in  those  days  when  even  in  a  crowd  you  suddenly  drop 
out  of  existence,  like  a  star  falling,  and  find  yourself 
alone.  Of  course  they  feel  it.  Every  energy  of  man 
it  seems  to  me  has  been  to  keep  women  from  the  touch 
of  life.  But  sometimes  they  find  a  loophole  and  get 
out  and  find  the  sense  of  it,  if  it's  only  in  the  tips  of 
their  fingers.  They  may  be  only  moments,  but  every 
woman  has  them." 

She  had  never  talked  like  this  to  any  one  before. 
Had  there  been  any  one  to  talk  to?  Would  she  have 
spoker.  to  them  in  such  a  fashion  if  there  had?  It  was 
only  since  that  sermon,  the  Christmas  before,  she  had 

78 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

been  aware  such  thoughts  were  in  the  composition  of 
her  mind  and  never  had  they  expressed  themselves  so 
definitely  as  this.  . 

Yet  her  wonder  was  more  of  him  than  of  herself. 
Until  that  moment  she  could  never  have  believed  a 
man  could  have  understood.  And  it  was  not  from 
what  he  said  that  she  felt  he  did.  He  was  sitting 
up  now  and  he  was  nursing  his  knees  as  he  gazed 
out  across  the  bay  towards  Kingsnorth.  It  was  in 
the  abstract  penetration  of  his  gaze,  the  silence 
about  him  as  he  listened  that  she  sensed  his  under- 
standing. 

Yet  had  she  known  it,  he  was  thinking  more  of  him- 
self than  of  her.  Something  echoed  in  him  with  all 
she  had  said.  It  was  not  that  he  had  never  gained,  but 
that  he  had  lost  his  touch  with  life.  The  spirit  in  him 
was  wandering  and  alone  and  it  had  chanced  upon 
hers,  wandering  also. 

This  sense  of  mutual  understanding  was  merely  the 
call  of  Nature.  The  hazard  of  all  things  had  tumbled 
them  together  in  the  crowd  of  the  world.  Something 
had  touched.  They  knew  it  that  second  day.  She 
was  answering  some  purpose  in  him  —  he  in  her.  And 
the  explanation  that  Nature  vouchsafed  to  her  was  that 
he  understood  women;  and  the  explanation  that  Na- 
ture vouchsafed  to  him  was  that  he  was  beginning  to 
understand  himself,  and  that  there  was  much  in  him 
that  needed  much  in  her. 

It  was  too  soon  to  think  that.  It  was  too  upheav- 
ing. 

79 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

He  rose  quickly  to  his  feet,  saying,  half  under  his 
breath,  but  loud  enough  for  her  to  hear,  "  It's  odd  — 
it's  all  odd." 

And  she  knew  what  he  meant. 


IV 

THE  bay  at  Bridnorth  is  inclosed  by  two  head- 
lands of  sandy  stone.     That  to  the  east  rises 
irregularly  with  belts  of  pine  wood  and  sea- 
bent    oaks,    opening   later    in    heathered    moors    that 
stretch  in  broad  plateaus,  then  sink  to  sheltered  hol- 
lows where  one  farm  at  least  lies  hidden  in  its  clump 
of  trees. 

It  is  always  a  romantic  world,  that  land  which  lies 
to  the  cliff  edge  beside  the  sea.  The  man  who  farms 
it  is  forever  at  close  grips  with  the  elements.  He 
wrestles  with  Nature  as  those  inland  with  their  screen- 
ing hedgerows  have  little  knowledge  of.  The  haw- 
thorn and  the  few  scattered  trees  that  grow,  all  are 
trained  by  the  prevailing  winds  into  fantastic  shapes 
no  hand  of  man  can  regulate.  Sheep  may  do  well  upon 
those  windy  pastures,  but  the  cattle,  ever  at  hiding  in 
the  hollows,  wear  a  weather-beaten  look.  Crops  are 
hazardous  ventures  and,  like  the  sower,  scattering  his 
grain,  must  plant  their  feet  full  firmly  in  the  soil  if 
they  would  stand  until  their  harvest  time  against  the 
winds  that  sweep  up  from  the  sea. 

Up  through  the  belt  of  pine  wood  and  across  the 
heathered  moors,  Mary  came  often  those  days  with  her 
friend.  The  yiews  from  countless  places  called  for  his 

81 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

brush.  Once  she  had  brought  him  there  to  show  him 
her  Devon,  he  sought  the  golf  links  no  more.  They 
never  played  their  final  match. 

On  the  first  two  occasions  of  their  excursions  beyond 
Penlock  Hill,  he  painted  assiduously.  Mary  brought 
a  book  and  read.  Long  whiles  between  her  reading 
she  watched  him,  smiling,  when,  with  almost  childish 
distress,  he  assured  her  he  had  done  pictures  that  at 
least  were  worth  glancing  at  in  a  portfolio,  if  not  a 
permanent  frame. 

For  either  it  was,  as  in  the  first  instance,  that  the 
atmosphere  of  a  strange  country  defeated  him  and 
tricked  his  sense  of  color,  or  his  mind  was  bent  on 
other  things,  but  both  days  were  fruitless  of  results. 
On  each  of  these  occasions,  as  before,  he  threw  the 
sketches  down,  unfinished,  and  fretted  at  his  lack  of 
skill. 

"  This  Devon  of  yours,"  said  he,  "  has  got  more 
color  than  I  can  get  out  of  my  box.  What  really  is 
the  matter  is  that  it  has  more  color  than  I've  got  in  my 
eyes.  If  it's  not  in  your  eyes,  it's  not  in  your  box. 
You  can't  squeeze  a  green  field  out  of  a  tube  of  oxide 
of  chromium.  Paint's  only  the  messenger  between 
you  and  Nature." 

Her  sympathy  was  real.  Notwithstanding  that  it 
gave  her  more  of  his  attention,  she  fretted  for  him  too. 
When  the  next  day  they  met  at  the  foot  of  Penlock 
Hill  and  she  found  him  without  his  satchel,  she  was 
genuinely  disappointed  and  unhappy. 

"  Aren't  you  sufficiently  selfish,"  he  asked,  "  to  be 

82 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

sensible  of  the  obvious  fact  that  I'd  far  sooner  talk  to 
you  than  spend  my  time  in  useless  efforts  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  in  the  nature  oi  women  to  be  really 
selfish,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh  to  lighten  her  meaning. 

That  set  them  at  discussion  upon  the  comparative 
selfishness  of  the  sexes  as  they  mounted  the  hill  and 
took  the  beaten  path  across  the  heather. 

For  a  man,  he  had  strange  points  of  view  to  her. 
With  an  honest  bitterness,  he  complained  about  the 
selfishness  of  men. 

"  But  what  else  can  we  be  ?  "  said  he.  "  As  things 
are,  what  else  can  we  be  ?  We  run  the  world  and  this 
civilization's  our  conception  of  the  measures  on  which 
it  has  to  be  run,  and  this  civilization  is  built  up  on  a 
solid  rock  of  egotism  and  selfishness,  with  bpute  force 
to  insist  upon  the  upholding  of  the  standard.  I  won- 
der what  would  happen,"  he  went  on,  "  if  fair  women, 
as  Meredith  visioned,  rose  in  revolt.  I  wonder  what 
would  happen  if  they  suddenly  combined  to  refuse  to 
give  the  world  the  material  it  builds  its  civilization  with. 
I  wonder  where  our  brute  force  would  come  in  then. 
What  sort  of  children  should  we  have  if  women  had 
to  be  taken  by  brute  force?  And  should  we  so  take 
them  if  really  they  were  to  resist?  Brute  force  has 
been  opposed  only  with  brute  force.  Our  highest  con- 
ception is  that  the  strongest  brute  force  wins.  I  won- 
der what  brute  force  would  do  if  it  were  opposed  with 
the  force  of  the  spiritual  ideals  that  women  have  and 
scarcely  are  awake  to  even  yet.  Are  you  awake  to 
the  spiritual  ideals  in  you?" 

83 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

He  looked  at  her  suddenly  as  they  walked  and  as 
suddenly  and  as  firmly  she  said  — 

"  Yes." 

"  By  Jove ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  You're  the  first 
woman  I've  ever  met  who  would  have  answered  as 
straight  and  direct  as  that.  All  the  rest  would  have 
hedged  and  shilly-shallied.  Some  would  have  giggled. 
Half  of  them  would  frankly  not  have  known  what  I 
meant." 

"  I  know  very  well  what  you  mean,"  she  replied. 
"  But  if  you're  surprised  at  a  woman  knowing,  I  don't 
think  you're  any  more  surprised  than  I  am  at  a  man 
asking  the  question.  How  did  you  know  to  begin  with 
that  women  have  spiritual  ideals  at  all,  strong  enough 
ever  to  think  of  their  being  ranged  against  brute 
force?" 

She  paused,  but  it  was  so  obvious  she  had  still  more 
to  say  that  he  waited  rather  than  interrupt  the  train  of 
her  thought. 

"  I  expect  your  wife's  a  very  wonderful  woman," 
she  said. 

In  that  pause  she  had  wrestled  with  herself. 

It  had  been  the  first  time  she  had  mentioned  his 
wife  in  all  their  conversation.  Well  she  knew  what 
would  be  the  effect  of  it.  It  would  call  her  there 
between  them.  Inevitably  it  would  thrust  him  a 
little  away  from  her  to  give  his  wife  room  in  their 
minds. 

It  had  been  an  irresistible  thought,  yet  why  should 
she  spoil  the  contact  of  mind  between  them  by  speak- 

84 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

ing  it?  Was  it  incumbent  upon  her  in  any  way  to 
remind  him  of  his  wife? 

Yet  partly  she  was  curious  to  know,  and  wholly  she 
was  honest  to  speak.  There  was  his  wife.  Nothing 
in  Mary's  thoughts  would  be  reckoned  without  her. 
Did  he  find  a  deep  interest  in  speaking  to  her?  She 
believed  he  did,  but  there  was  his  wife.  She  knew 
there  was  no  attraction  of  physical  beauty  in  her,  yet 
had  he  not  made  it  obvious  in  the  last  ten  days  that 
still  she  had  attraction  for  him  ?  It  seemed  certain  to 
her  that  he  had;  but  there  was  his  wife. 

At  every  turn  in  their  conversation,  at  the  end  of 
every  steadied  glance,  this  woman  she  had  never  seen 
effected  some  intervention  in  thought  or  vision  in 
Mary's  mind.  More  plainly  a  thousand  times  it  seemed 
she  felt  her  presence  than  did  he.  There  were  mo- 
ments when  enthusiasm  caught  him  and  it  appeared  he 
had  forgotten  every  one  and  everything  but  Mary  there 
before  him. 

It  became  imperative  then  for  her  to  summon  that 
vision  before  her  mind.  She  did  it  with  an  effort. 
But  later,  when  alone  at  night  before  she  turned  to 
sleep,  it  came  without  call,  trembling  her  with  emo- 
tion at  the  thought  that  a  moment  might  happen  upon 
them  when  they  would  both  forget  or  come  to  memory 
too  late. 

And  what  did  she  mean  by  that  —  too  late  ?  In  all 
frankness  and  honesty,  she  did  not  know.  It  were  bet- 
ter explained,  she  would  not  allow  herself  to  know;. 
Reaching  that  issue  in  her  conscious  thought  about  it 

85 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

all,  emotion  would  sweep  like  a  hot  wind  upon  her. 
She  would  lie,  half  trembling  in  the  darkness,  pressing 
her  hand  upon  her  breast  to  frighten  herself  into  some 
sort  of  terrible  joy  at  the  rapid  beating  of  her  heart 
and  then,  driving  all  conscious  thought  away  from  her, 
she  would  straighten  her  limbs  in  the  bed,  exerting  her 
physical  control,  as  when  she  nerved  herself  to  play 
her  game,  thus  forcing  herself  to  quietude  and  ulti- 
mately to  sleep. 

So  she  came  always  consciously  to  a  point  of  thought 
which,  bringing  her  the  vision  of  his  wife  and  the  sense 
of  her  own  emotion,  drifted  her  towards  that  subcon- 
sciousness  of  being  wherein  the  pattern  of  so  many  a 
woman's  life  is  made.  She  thought  no  more  but,  had 
she  permitted  it,  would  have  lain,  silent-minded  in  an 
ecstasy.  It  was  no  less  than  physical  control,  the 
straightening  of  her  limbs,  the  clenching  of  her  hands, 
the  beating  of  her  pillow  into  new  resting  places  for 
her  head,  that  put  the  ecstasy  away. 

Here,  in  some  likeness,  was  that  same  moment,  in 
the  broad  light  of  day  with  him  beside  her  and  the 
crisp  heather  roots  beneath  their  feet.  It  was  almost 
a  physical  effort  in  her  throat  that  gave  her  strength 
to  say  — 

"  I  expect  your  wife's  a  very  wonderful  woman." 

She  meant  him  to  realize  that  in  her  thoughts  it  was 
through  his  wife  he  had  become  possessed  of  such 
knowledge  about  women;  that  there  was  his  wife;  that 
she  was  there  between  them;  that  if  he  had  for  the 
instant  forgotten  her,  she  had  not.  It  was  as  though, 

86 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

in  a  violent  muscular  effort,  Mary  had  seized  her  by 
the  wrist  and  jerked  her  into  step  with  them.  Almost 
was  she  catching  for  her  breath  when  she  had  done  it. 

"  My  wife  is  a  wonderful  woman,"  said  he  quietly. 
"  She  has  as  big  a  heart  as  all  this  stretch  of  acres  and 
that  breadth  of  sea,  but  to-day  is  her  to-morrow.  I 
didn't  learn  about  the  spiritual  ideals  of  women  from 
her." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  it  then?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  Now  you're  asking  me  something  I  couldn't  pos- 
sibly tell  you,"  said  he,  and  then  he  smiled.  He  had 
seen  the  look  leap  slanting  across  her  eyes  as  she 
thought  of  the  other  woman  who  had  taught  him. 

"Because,"  he  added— "I  don't  know." 


IF  it  were  Fanny  who  first  had  sense  of  what  was 
happening,  it  was  Jane  who,  when  she  discov- 
ered it,  spoke  out  her  mind  about  the  matter. 

Fanny  knew  by  instinct,  long  before  the  first  sus- 
picions had  fermented  her  elder  sister's  thoughts.  She 
detected  a  sharper,  brighter  look  in  Mary's  eyes;  she 
calculated  a  greater  distance  in  Mary's  meditative 
glance. 

At  first  it  was  as  subtle  a  detection  as  the  record  of 
that  weightless  rider  one  straddles  on  the  balance  arm. 
Faintly  the  scales  of  her  suspecting  answered  to  the 
application  of  the  signs  which  she  observed.  Faintly 
the  weight  of  a  thought  was  registered  upon  her  con- 
sciousness. 

If  it  was  not  as  yet  that  Mary  was  in  love,  at  least 
her  mind  was  centering  on  that  which  any  moment 
might  turn  to  burning  thoughts. 

They  occupied  the  same  room  together,  these  two. 
This  had  been  a  habit  from  childhood.  Since  the  death 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Throgmorton,  the  accommodation  of 
that  house  did  not  necessitate  it.  But  they  had  grown 
used  to  each  other's  company.  They  would  have 
missed  the  sound  of  each  other's  voices  those  moments 
before  the  approach  of  sleep,  the  exchange  of  more 
lucid  conversation  in  the  mornings  as  they  dressed. 

88 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

It  was  in  unaccustomed  pauses  as  she  undressed  at 
night  that  Fanny's  mind  found  the  first  whispers  of 
her  instinct  about  Mary.  It  was  riot  that  she  said  to 
herself — "  I  used  to  sit  on  my  bed  like  that  —  I  used 
to  stare  at  the  wall  —  I  can  just  remember  what  I  used 
to  think  about."  Far  more  it  was  that,  at  the  sight  of 
Mary  doing  these  things,  there  aame,  like  an  echo  into 
Fanny's  pulses,  the  old  emotions  through  which  she 
had  passed  when  she  had  been  walking  round  those 
cliff  paths  waiting  for  the  destiny  that  should  declare 
itself  for  her. 

She  watched  her  sister,  even  more  closely  than  she 
knew.  It  was  emotional,  not  conscious  observation. 
Once  the  matter  had  fastened  itself  upon  her  imagina- 
tion, the  whole  spirit  of  it  emotionalized  her.  She 
noted  all  the  indications  of  Mary's  condition  of  mind, 
without  looking  for  them ;  almost  without  knowing  she 
had  seen  them. 

The  processes  of  her  thought  during  that  first  fort- 
night when  at  the  last  Liddiard  was  meeting  Mary 
every  day,  were  subtle,  subliminal  and  beyond  any  con- 
scious intent.  Often  watching  her  sister  as,  regarding 
herself  in  the  mirror  while  she  did  her  hair,  with  those 
indefinite  touches  of  greater  care  and  more  calculating 
consideration,  she  found  a  pain  fretting  at  her  heart  — 
a  hunger-pain  as  of  one  who  is  ill-nourished,  keeping 
life  together  but  no  more. 

In  this  it  was  as  also  in  the  choice  of  the  skirts  and 
blouses  Mary  wore.  It  needed  no  great  selection  of 
wardrobe  to  trace  this  to  its  source. 

89 


Fanny  could  never  have  dreamt  of  expressing  the 
knowledge  that  women  dress  to  the  dictation  of  their 
emotions  even  if  it  be  something  that  is  never  revealed, 
the  color  of  a  ribbon  on  their  undergarments,  even  the 
choice  of  those  undergarments  themselves.  That 
which  touches  their  skin  means  insensibly  something 
to  them  when  their  emotions  are  astir.  It  was  not 
that  Fanny  had  learnt  this;  she  knew  it.  But  it  was 
not  that  she  could  speak  of  her  knowledge. 

All  that  happened  with  Fanny  those  days  was  that 
the  observation  of  these  things  in  Mary  emotionalized 
her.  Lying  in  bed  there,  watching  her  sister  as  she 
dressed,  she  found  her  pulses  beating  more  quickly. 
She  felt  a  restlessness  of  body  as  well  as  mind.  She 
threw  the  bedclothes  from  her  and  got  up,  not  because 
she  wanted  to  be  dressed  herself,  but  because  she 
could  not  stay  in  bed  any  longer. 

And  then,  when  one  morning,  Mary  said  — 
"  I've  been  thinking,  Fanny  —  why  shouldn't  I  turn 
that  room  looking  over  the  garden  into  a  bedroom? 
We're  awfully  cramped  here.  It's  just  like  us  to  go 
on  with  the  same  arrangements,  merely  because  we're 
used  to  them." 

Then  Fanny  knew,  and  her  knowledge  was  more  of 
an  upheaval  in  her  mind  than  any  thought  of  this  revo- 
lution against  the  placid  routine  of  their  existence. 
So  much  greater  was  it  that  she  could  not  even  bestir 
herself  to  resentment  against  Mary  for  preferring  to 
be  alone. 

The  thought  crossed  her  mind  — 

90 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  How  do  I  interfere  with  her?  It's  awfully  selfish 
of  her  to  want  to  be  alone.  It  isn't  as  if  we  hadn't 
shared  the  same  room  for  years."  * 

Such  thoughts  as  these  would  have  been  poignant  at 
any  other  time.  Mary  was  prepared  for  the  assertion 
of  them.  But  they  seemed  idle  to  Fanny  then  —  fool- 
ish and  utterly  devoid  of  purpose. 

She  sat  on  the  side  of  her  bed,  staring  at  Mary 
busily  engaged  in  doing  her  hair.  And  she  knew  so 
well  what  the  meaning  of  that  centered  occupation  was. 
Such  a  moment  she  would  have  chosen  herself  for  an 
announcement  of  that  nature. 

Mary  was  in  love,  and  with  a  man  who  had  a  wife 
already.  She  was  surprised  in  her  own  soul  at  the 
littleness  of  weight  the  second  half  of  that  realization 
carried  in  her  thoughts.  She  did  not  ask  herself  what 
—  this  being  so  —  Mary  was  going  to  do  about  it. 
As  a  problem  of  impenetrable  solution,  it  meant 
scarcely  anything  to  her.  All  that  kept  repeating  itself 
in  her  mind  was  just  the  knowledge  that  Mary  was  in 
love  —  Mary  was  in  love. 

She  felt  a  sickness  in  her  throat.  It  was  not  of 
fear.  It  was  not  exactly  of  joy.  She  might  have  been 
seized  of  an  ague,  for  she  trembled.  The  sensation 
was  like  waves  breaking  over  her;  as  though  she  were 
in  water,  fathoms  deep,  and  were  struggling  to  keep 
her  lips  above  the  surface  that  she  might  breathe  freely. 
But  she  could  not  breathe ;  only  in  stolen  moments,  as 
if  breath  were  no  longer  hers  to  hold. 

Mary  was  in  love.     She  wanted  that  room  by  her- 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

self  so  that  at  night  she  could  lie  alone  with  her 
thoughts  and  none  could  touch  or  spoil  them  with  their 
presence.  She  wanted  that  room  alone  so  that  in  the 
morning  she  could  wake  with  none  but  her  thoughts 
beside  her.  She  was  in  love.  Suddenly  the  world  to 
Fanny  seemed  bitter  and  black  and  cold.  She  was 
out  of  it.  It  had  gone  by.  She  was  left  there  on  the 
roadside  —  trembling. 

Love  was  the  magic  by  which  she  herself  could  be 
revealed  to  herself  when,  coming  upon  this  sudden 
knowledge  of  Mary,  it  was  that  she  realized  there  was 
no  magic  in  the  world  for  her. 

She  was  alone,  unloved,  unloving.  In  that  there 
was  merely  consciousness,  a  staring,  hungry  conscious- 
ness of  herself.  Only  in  the  abandonment  of  generos- 
ity that  came  with  love  could  she  find  any  meaning  in 
her  soul.  Only  by  giving  could  she  gain. 

The  tragedy  of  Fanny  Throgmorton  and  the  count- 
less women  that  are  like  her  was  that  she  had  none  to 
whom  she  could  give. 

All  this,  without  a  word  in  her  thoughts  that  could 
have  given  it  expression,  was  what  she  felt  about  Mary 
as  she  sat  on  her  bedside  that  morning  and  watched 
her  sister  doing  her  hair. 


VI 

JANE  made  the  discovery   for  herself,  but  by 
chance. 
One  morning  when  Mary  had  gone  out,  in- 
dicating the  likelihood  of  her  playing  a  game  of  golf, 
Jane  put  on  her  oldest  hat,  took  the  path  through  the 
marshes  which  avoided  the  necessity  of  going  through 
the  village  where  she  would  be  seen  and  criticized  for 
her  clothes,  and  went  alone  up  onto  the  cliffs  beyond 
Penlock. 

These  were  rare,  but  definite,  occasions  with  her. 
She  felt  the  necessity  of  them  at  unexpected  intervals 
as  a  Catholic,  apart  from  Saints'  days  and  Holy  days, 
feels  the  necessity  of  confession  and  straightway,  in 
the  midst  of  business  hours  or  household  duties,  seeks 
out  the  priest  and  speaks  his  mind. 

To  Jane,  those  lonely  walks  with  the  solemn  solitude 
of  those  cliffs,  were  confessional  moments  when,  set- 
ting herself  at  a  distance  which  that  wide  environment 
could  lend  her,  she  could  look  on  at  herself,  could 
calmly  inspect  and  almost  dispassionately  criticize. 

She  went  without  knowledge  of  her  purposes.  It 
was  just  for  a  walk,  she  said,  and  if  questioned  why 
she  insisted  upon  going  alone,  she  would  find  herself 
becoming  angry  at  their  curiosity. 

"  Mayn't  I  sometimes  like  my  own  company  better 

93 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

than  anybody  else's?  "  she  would  ask  shortly  and  that 
was  about  all  she  knew  definitely  of  these  confessional 
calls.  If  she  was  aware  of  any  mental  exercise  dur- 
ing those  walks,  it  was  in  momentary  observations  of 
Nature,  a  lark  soaring,  a  flight  of  gulls  upon  the  water, 
the  life  of  that  farm  in  the  hollow  above  Penlock.  Of 
that  inquisitorial  examination  of  herself,  practically 
she  knew  nothing.  It  took  place  behind  the  bolts  of 
doors,  all  sound  of  it  shut  out,  barring  admittance  to 
her  conscious  self. 

Coming  back  for  the  midday  meal  she  would  say  to 
Hannah  across  the  table  — 

f<  How  you  can  stick  in  the  house  all  day,  one  week 
after  another,  beats  me.  It  was  perfectly  lovely  this 
morning  up  there  on  the  moors.  We  all  make  life  so 
automatic  here  that  one  might  as  well  put  a  penny  in 
the  slot  and  have  finished  with  it.  It's  only  a  penny- 
worth we  get." 

From  this  they  received  the  impression  she  had  also 
given  to  herself,  that  she  had  been  drinking  in  the 
beauties  of  the  countryside.  If  she  had,  it  was  but  a 
sip  of  wine  at  the  altar  where  she  had  been  kneeling  in 
inmost  meditation. 

This  morning,  feeling  the  sun  too  hot  for  energy, 
she  had  found  for  herself  a  sheltered  bed  in  the  heather 
where,  through  a  gap  in  the  jungle  it  became  as  she  lay 
in  the  midst  of  it,  she  could  see  the  farm  in  its  hollow, 
the  sea  of  cerulean  beyond  and,  nearer  in  the  fore- 
ground, a  belt  of  pine  trees  standing  up  amongst  their 
surrounding  gorse  and  bracken. 

94 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

It  was  there  upon  a  path  leading  through  the  bracken 
to  a  gate  in  one  of  the  farmer's  hedges,  she  caught  her 
first  glimpse  of  Mary  and  Liddiard:  The  mere  fact  of 
her  not  being  on  the  golf  links  as  she  had  said  drove 
the  suspicion  hot,  like  a  branding  iron,  on  Jane's 
thoughts. 

She  watched  them  pass  by  below  the  hill  on  which 
she  had  found  her  bed  and  her  eyes  followed  them  like 
a  bird's,  alert  and  keen.  When  they  stopped  at  the 
gate  and  Liddiard  seated  himself  on  it  with  his  feet 
resting  on  the  bar  beneath  while  Mary  stood  below  him, 
Jane  made  for  herself  a  window  in  that  secreting  wall 
of  heather  and  lay  there,  watching  them,  with  all  her 
blood  fermenting  to  a  biting  acid  that  tasted  in  her 
mouth  and  smarted  in  her  eyes,  becoming  even,  as  it 
were,  a  self-righteous  irritation  beneath  her  skin. 

To  her  it  was  obvious  enough.  Their  Mary  who 
read  so  many  books,  who  seemed  to  care  so  little  what 
destiny  the  fateful  coach  to  Bridnorth  brought  her, 
was  sport  of  Fate  and  surely  now.  Their  Mary  was  in 
love. 

Jane  angered  at  the  realization  of  it  to  think  what 
a  fool  her  sister  was.  It  would  be  talked  about  the 
whole  village  over,  especially  then,  during  the  holidays 
when  the  summer  visitors  were  there.  One  visitor 
there  was  in  particular  who  came  every  year  and  spent 
most  of  her  mornings  after  bathing  drying  her  hair  on 
the  beach  and  talking  scandal  till  hunger  and  the  mid- 
day meal  called  her  homewards. 

What  a  fool  she  was!  This  story  of  herself  and 

95 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

a  married  man  would  linger  long  whiles  in  Bridnorth. 
They  had  not  much  to  talk  of.  They  preserved  their 
gossipings  with  assiduous  care.  Each  year  it  would 
be  whispered  about  her  and  men  would  keep  her  at  a 
greater  distance  than  ever. 

They  talked  there  together  for  an  hour  and  more. 
For  an  hour  and  more,  Jane  lay  and  watched  them. 
What  were  they  talking  of?  Sometimes  by  the  way  he 
spoke,  leaning  down  and  riveting  each  word  upon 
Mary's  attention,  it  seemed  as  though  their  conversa- 
tion were  of  the  most  serious  nature. 

How  could  it  be  serious  ?  What  a  fool  she  must  be 
if  she  thought  it  was!  It  was  an  idle  flirtation  with 
him,  a  married  man,  alone  on  his  holidays,  amusing 
himself  with  the  most  likely  girl  that  offered  herself. 
Yet  never  with  all  her  astuteness  would  Jane  have  con- 
sidered that  Mary  was  the  most  likely.  Always  Mary 
had  seemed,  except  for  her  games,  insensible  to  the 
attractions  of  men.  What  had  come  over  her  ?  Fanny 
was  the  one  whom  men  with  inclination  for  harmless 
passing  of  their  time  had  singled  out  for  semi-serious 
interchange  of  ideas.  Fanny  was  romantic.  Men 
liked  that  when  it  did  not  become  too  serious  to  in- 
terfere with  the  free  pursuit  of  their  enjoyments. 

But  this,  as  she  watched  them  there  through  her  cur- 
tain of  heather,  looked  more  romantic  than  anything 
she  could  ever  have  imagined  about  Fanny.  Had  they 
been  strangers  and  had  she  come  across  them  thus  she 
would  have  felt  herself  in  the  presence  of  something 
not  meant  for  her  to  see  and,  passing  them  by,  she 

96 


,THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

would  have  given  all  impression  of  looking  the  other 
way,  however  covertly  she  might  have  observed. 

Yet  here  it  was  her  own  sister  and,  to  herself,  calling 
it  her  duty,  she  watched  them  both  with  every  sense 
stretched  forth  to  clutch  each  sign  or  movement  that 
might  give  evidence  to  her  impulsive  mind  how  far  the 
thing  had  gone  between  them. 

She  was  not  long  in  learning  the  utmost  truth. 
After  a  long  silence,  Liddiard  slipped  down  off  the  gate 
and  stood  in  the  bracken  looking  directly  into  Mary's 
eyes.  Jane  felt  that  look.  She  held  her  breath  as  it 
pierced  into  her  own  eyes.  Then,  when  he  laid  his 
hands  upon  Mary's  shoulders  and  for  an  instant  held 
her  so  as  he  spoke,  Jane  swallowed  in  her  throat  and 
against  the  roots  of  heather  felt  her  heart  beating  like 
a  trapped  bird  in  her  breast. 

At  that  distance,  more  sure  than  Mary,  she  knew 
what  was  going  to  happen.  More  sure  than  either  of 
them,  she  knew.  When  suddenly,  as  though  some  leap- 
ing power  had  swept  upon  him  unexpectedly,  he  took 
her  in  his  arms  and  their  heads  were  one  together, 
linked  with  his  kisses,  Jane  had  known  of  it  more  surely 
than  he. 

Feeling  those  kisses  on  her  own  lips,  on  her  eyes,  her 
throat,  and  like  hammers  beating  in  her  heart,  Jane 
buried  her  face  in  the  heather  but  did  not  know  that 
she  moaned  with  pain. 

When  she  looked  up,  they  had  gone. 


VII 

IF  those  kisses  were  hurtful  to  Jane,  they  were  a 
sublime  realization  to  Mary.     In  the  rush  of  them 
as  they  pressed  against  her  lips,  she  felt  a  con- 
summation of  all  those  forces  of  life  which,  with  the 
Bridnorth  coach,  had  so  often  called  to  her  as  it  came 
and  passed  with  its  message  out  of  the  world. 

Rightly  or  wrongly  in  the  accepted  standards  of 
morality,  Mary  felt  such  completed  justification  in 
those  moments  as  to  be  sensitive  of  the  surging  inten- 
tions of  life  triumphing  within  her.  This,  she  knew 
then,  was  the  fullness  of  meaning  in  a  woman's  life. 
If  it  were  pleasure,  it  was  not  the  pleasure  of  sensation ; 
not  even  the  pleasure  of  the  promise  of  gratification. 
None  of  the  joys  of  amorous  delay  were  mingled  in 
those  kisses  for  her. 

What  she  felt  in  the  rushing  torrent  in  her  veins 
was  all  subsidiary  to  the  overwhelming  sense  of  fulfill- 
ment. 

He  would  have  lingered  there  beside  that  gateway  in 
the  bracken,  would  have  dallied  with  the  joy  it  was  to 
him  to  feel  her  whole  being  in  response  to  his.  But 
Mary  had  no  need  of  that. 

If  this  was  what  her  mother  had  meant  by  conceal- 
ment of  her  own  sensations,  she  surely  had  it  then. 

98 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

This  was  not  an  hour  of  dalliance  in  her  life.  It  was 
the  deep-sounding  prelude  to  the  realization  of  the  very- 
spiritual  substance  of  her  being. 

At  her  dictation  they  left  that  place  in  the  bracken. 
In  response  to  her  wish  they  turned  from  the  gateway 
and  sought  the  beaten  path  through  the  heather  again. 
In  that  moment  she  wanted  no  more  of  his  kisses; 
partly  perhaps  because  in  her  emotions  she  could  have 
borne  no  more ;  but  mostly  it  was  that  she  wanted  space 
and  freedom  for  her  thoughts;  to  speak  them  to  him 
if  need  be,  certainly  to  review  them  in  her  mind.  It 
was  time  she  demanded  —  time  to  touch  the  wonder 
that  was  coming  to  her,  which,  from  the  power  of  those 
kisses,  she  somehow  assumed  could  not  be  withheld 
from  her  now. 

"  I  could  not  help  that,"  he  said  almost  apologetically 
when  she  insisted  upon  their  going  on.  "  Somehow  or 
other  —  I  don't  know  —  honestly,  I  couldn't  help  it, 
and  I  suppose  I've  offended  you  now." 

For  one  instant  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  him  with 
a  searching  glance. 

"  Offended  ?  "  she  repeated.  "  Didn't  you  realize 
that  I  let  you  kiss  me  —  not  once  —  but  — "  Suddenly 
she  realized  in  a  swift  vision  the  Mary  Throgmorton 
that  was ;  the  Mary  Throgmorton  of  the  square,  white 
Georgian  house;  the  sister  of  Hannah  and  Jane  and 
Fanny,  and  she  could  not  say  how  many  times  he  had 
kissed  her.  Her  cheeks  flamed. 

"  Don't  talk  about  offense,"  said  she  almost  hotly, 
99 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

and  walked  on  with  him  some  time  in  silence,  saying 
no  more,  leaving  him  in  an  amaze  of  wondering  what 
her  thoughts  could  be  and  whether  that  denial  of  of- 
fense was  not  merely  a  screen  to  hide  from  him  the 
shame  she  felt  at  what  had  happened. 

Was  she  ashamed  ?  It  seemed  to  him  then  that  she 
was.  That  probably  was  the  last  time  he  would  touch 
her  lips,  yet  having  touched  them  and  felt,  not  the 
eagerness  as  with  Fanny,  but  the  sureness  of  their  re- 
sponse, there  had  been  awakened  in  him  the  full  con- 
sciousness of  desire  to  touch  them  with  his  lips  again. 
For  now  he  felt,  not  master  of  her,  but  a  servant. 
At  the  mere  utterance  of  her  command,  he  must  obey. 
With  all  his  eagerness  to  stay  there  longer  at  that 
gate  there  was  no  power  in  him  of  conflict  with  her 
wishes  when  she  expressed  the  desire  to  go  on. 

What  was  it  she  was  thinking  as  she  walked?  Did 
really  she  hate  him  for  what  he  had  done?  The  cry 
her  nature  had  made  to  his  in  those  moments  of  the 
closeness  of  their  bodies  had  redoubled  and  redoubled 
in  its  intensity.  Yet  he  was  less  sure  of  her  than  he 
had  been  before. 

He  felt  like  one  struggling  blindly  through  the 
storm  of  his  emotions,  answering  some  call  that  was 
not  for  help  but  of  command.  Was  that  the  end  of  it 
all?  Would  he  never  again  hold  her  in  his  arms? 
Tentatively  he  took  her  hand  which  did  not  resist  his 
holding  as  they  walked. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  —  almost  below  his  breath  — 
100 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  I  suppose  I've  seemed  weak  —  but  —  I  love  you. 
It  was  not  weakness.  I  can't  explain  it,  but  if  you 
knew,  really  it  was  strength." 

"  Please  don't  say  any  more  —  not  now,"  said  she 
and  lengthened  her  stride  and  threw  back  her  head  that 
all  the  full  sweep  of  the  air  might  beat  upon  her  face 
and  throat. 

It  never  consciously  occurred  to  her  that  a  woman's 
throat  and  the  fine  column  of  her  neck  could  express 
her  beauty  to  a  man.  Yet  as  they  walked,  she  knew 
that  his  eyes  had  seen  such  beauty  in  hers. 

So  it  was,  when  Jane  looked  up  again,  they  had 
gone.  For  another  half  hour  and  more  she  sat  there 
in  her  bed  in  the  heather,  trying  to  appreciate  all  that 
it  meant.  But  again  and  again  the  sequence  of  her 
conventional  thoughts  was  disturbed  by  the  vision  of 
those  two  as  her  eyes  turned  to  the  gateway  in  the 
bracken  and  she  saw  them  in  her  mind  with  lips  touch- 
ing and  heads  close  pressed  together  in  that  long  em- 
brace. 

With  that  vision  all  conventionality  slipped  from 
her  control,  even  from  the  very  substance  of  her 
thoughts.  Instinctively  she  knew  she  had  been  wit- 
ness of  something  she  had  neither  power  nor  right  to 
judge  when,  forci.  g  herself  to  regard  it  as  all  the 
years  of  habit  and  custom  would  have  her  do,  she 
shut  her  eyes  to  the  sight  of  them  in  that  bracken  and 
called  upon  her  judgment  to  dispassionate  her  mind. 

That  evening  she  contrived  to  be  alone  with  Mary 
101 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

after  tea.  They  walked  in  the  garden,  round  the 
paths  with  their  borders  of  thrift  in  heavy  cushions 
of  growth. 

In  a  tone  of  casual  unconcern,  Jane  asked  her  about 
her  game  of  golf. 

Her  pause  in  answering  was  significant.  In  full 
confidence,  Jane  expected  the  lie  and  understood  her 
sister  still  the  less  when,  having  weighed  the  truth 
against  expediency,  she  replied  — 

"  We  didn't  play  golf.  We  went  up  onto  the 
moors  above  Penlock." 

It  gave  Jane  the  opportunity  she  sought,  but  in  the 
frankness  of  giving  confused  her.  So  had  her  mind 
forestalled  all  the  progressions  of  that  conversation, 
that  for  a  moment  she  was  silent. 

What  sort  of  woman  was  this  Mary  of  theirs  who 
seemed  to  have  no  guiltiness  of  conscience,  when 
from  childhood  she  had  been  trained  to  listen  to  the 
still,  small  voice?  Did  she  not  realize  the  enormity 
of  what  she  was  doing?  Jane's  lips  set  to  their 
thinnest  line. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  wise,"  she  began,  and  in  that 
tone  of  voice  which,  with  a  sharp  edge,  cut  the  plain 
pattern  of  her  meaning  — "  Do  you  think  it's  wise  to 
go  about  so  much  with  this  man?  Even  if  he  weren't 
married  —  do  you  think  it's  wise?" 

The  sharp  glance  which  Jane  stole  at  her  sister  then 
revealed  Mary  possessed  and  unconcerned.  So  well 
had  she  known  what  Jane  was  going  to  say  that  sur- 

102 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

prise  had  no  power  to  disconcert  her.  But  beyond 
that,  there  was  in  some  chamber  of  her  mind  a  certain 
sureness  of  herself,  a  steadying  confidence  in  all  she 
did.  This  it  had  also  been  even  in  the  high  torrent 
of  her  emotion  when  she  would  have  no  more  of  his 
kisses  and  seemed  in  that  moment  to  him  the  sub- 
stance of  unyielding  stone  his  temperature  of  pas- 
sion had  heated  but  a  moment  and  no  more. 

"  I  think,"  she  replied,  after  a  moment's  silence ; 
"  I  think  that  this  wisdom  you  talk  about  —  worldly 
wisdom  —  is  a  very  over-rated  virtue.  I  think  we've 
lost  a  lot  —  all  of  us  —  by  cultivating  it.  I  find 
Mr.  Liddiard  much  more  interesting  than  any  one 
or  any  thing  in  Bridnorth.  Life  after  all  is  short 
enough  —  dull  enough.  Why  shouldn't  I  take  what 
interest  it  offers  when  I  can,  while  I  can?  He  goes 
in  a  few  days.  What's  worldly  wisdom  to  the  feel- 
ing that  your  mind  is  growing  instead  of  stagnating? 
If  you  mean  you  think  I  ought  not  to  go  out  with  him 
again,  I  can't  agree  with  you." 

She  spoke  like  a  woman  addressing  a  community 
of  women,  not  as  one  sister  to  another.  There  was  a 
note  of  detachment  in  her  voice,  Jane  had  never 
heard  before.  In  all  that  household,  Jane  always  as- 
sumed she  had  herself  the  final  power  of  control. 
She  felt  it  no  longer  here.  So  long  as  Mary  was 
speaking,  it  appeared  to  her  as  though  she  were  one 
listening  to  some  authority  far  superior  to  her  own. 
It  was  in  Mary's  voice  and  yet  seemed  outside  and 

103 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

beyond  her  as  well.  There  was  power  -behind  it. 
She  could  not  sense  the  direction  or  origin  of  that 
power,  but  it  dominated  her.  She  felt  small  beside 
it,  and  feeling  small  and  realizing  that  it  was  this 
Mary,  their  youngest,  who  was  the  voice  of  it,  she 
grew  angry.  All  control  of  that  situation  she  had 
intended  to  conduct  left  her.  It  left  her  fretting  with 
the  sensation  of  her  own  impotence. 

"  You  can't  agree  with  me,  can't  you !  "  retorted 
Jane  hotly.  "  You  wouldn't  agree,  I  suppose,  if  I 
said  that,  beside  being  unwise,  I  thought  it  beastly  and 
sinful  and  horrible  altogether,  to  see  a  girl  kissing  a 
married  man,  kissing  him  in  a  beastly  way  too  ?  " 

Never,  even  from  the  first  moment  of  her  discov- 
ery, had  she  ever  meant  to  say  this.  This  was  not 
Jane's  method.  What  flood  of  emotion  had  borne  her 
thus  far  out  of  her  course  ?  Fully  it  had  been  her  in- 
tention to  spealc  of  Mary's  friendship  with  Liddiard 
as  though  it  were  a  flippant  and  a  passing  thing;  to 
belittle  it  until,  in  its  littleness,  she  had  shown  this 
foolish  sister  of  hers  what  folly  it  was. 

How  had  it  happened  she  had  thus  exaggerated  its 
importance  by  the  heat  of  her  words?  Something 
had  pricked  and  spurred  her.  Something  had  driven 
her  beyond  her  control.  Finding  herself  opposed  by 
a  force  so  infinitely  greater  than  her  own,  she  had 
struggled  and  fought.  It  had  been  a  moment's  hys- 
teria in  the  sudden  consciousness  of  her  impotence. 
Then  what  power  was  it?  Not  merely  Mary  herself. 

104 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

She  could  not  submit  her  mind  to  that  admission.  It 
was  greater  than  Mary  and  yet,  becoming  the  voice  of 
it,  she  felt  that  this  sister  of  hers  was  greater  than 
herself. 

To  Mary,  the  shock  of  realization  that  Jane  had 
seen  them  that  moment  in  the  bracken  was  not  one 
that  seemed  to  tremble  or  emotionalize  her  at  all.  If 
she  felt  any  anger  at  the  thought  that  she  had  been 
spied  upon  —  for  swiftly  recalling  the  place  of  that 
happening,  she  knew  Jane  must  have  been  in  hiding, 
—  it  was  an  anger  that  burnt  out,  like  ignited  powder, 
a  flash,  no  more.  It  left  no  trace.  All  her  conscious- 
ness assembled  in  her  mind  to  warn  her  that  the 
meaning  of  Life  which  had  come  in  those  last  two 
weeks  to  her  was  in  jeopardy  of  being  made  mean- 
ingless. It  did  not  frighten  her,  but  set  the  beating 
of  her  heart  to  a  slow  and  deliberate  measure. 

Whatever  Jane  knew  and  however  she  intended  to 
use  her  knowledge,  Mary  determined  to  fight  for  this 
new-found  purpose  of  her  existence.  If  they  were 
fools,  if  theirs  was  the  folly  of  waste,  if  they  let  all 
life  go  by  them  to  be  worldly  wise,  she  could  not  help 
or  wait  for  them  now. 

Something  had  come  with  its  promise  of  fulfillment 
to  her,  her  nature  urged  her  not  to  ignore.  What  if 
he  was  married?  There  had  been  moments  in  the 
inception  and  growth  of  their  relationship  when  she 
had  thought  first  of  his  wife.  She  thought  first  of 
her  no  longer.  She  was  stealing  no  intrinsic  thing. 

105 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

In  a  few  days  he  would  go  back  to  his  house  in  Somer- 
set and  what  he  had  given  her  of  his  mind,  as  she  had 
seen,  had  been  his  to  give  her;  and,  if  he  had  kissed 
her,  what  had  she  stolen  from  his  wife  in  that?  He 
would  still  kiss  his  wife.  She  knew  that.  As  plainly 
as  if  they  were  there  before  her,  she  could  see  their 
embrace.  It  meant  nothing  to  her.  They  would  not 
be  the  same  kisses  he  had  given  Mary. 

Whatever  had  been  the  call  of  Nature  to  him  in 
that  moment  when  passion  had  spoken  out  of  his 
lips,  his  eyes,  the  power  she  felt  in  his  arms  as  they 
crushed  her,  it  had  been  not  through  the  channel  of 
his  body,  but  his  mind. 

Insensibly  she  was  learning  the  multitudinous 
courses  by  which  Nature  came  to  claim  her  own. 
She  was  stealing  nothing  from  his  wife.  All  that 
was  coming  to  her  was  her  own  and  with  the  sudden 
realization  of  Jane's  knowledge  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, her  first  sensation  was  a  warrung  that  her  very 
soul  was  in  jeopardy. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said  then;  no  defense  that 
she  could,  or  cared  to,  offer.  She  knew  quite  well 
from  those  long  years  of  knowledge,  how  horrible 
their  kisses  must  have  seemed  to  Jane.  Once  upon  a 
time,  she  might  have  thought  them  horrible  herself. 
Now,  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  that  might  serve  in 
her  defense. 

Taking  a  deep  breath,  she  looked  straight  in  Jane's 
eyes  and  stood  there,  arresting  their  movement  on 

106 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

the  garden  path  to  paint  the  defiant  attitude  of  her 
mind. 

"  Well  —  if  you've  seen,"  said  she,  "  you've  seen. 
There's  no  more  to  be  said  about  it.  We've  all  lived 
together  so  long,  I  suppose  it's  hard  for  any  one  of  us 
to  realize  that  our  lives  are  really  all  separate  things. 
You  talk  about  it  as  being  beastly.  I  can  assure  you 
there  was  nothing  beastly  in  our  minds.  However, 
you  must  think  whatever  your  mind  suggests  to  you 
to  think,  and  you  must  start  yourself  all  the  talk  about 
us  you  say  is  bound  to  come  when  I'm  seen  about  with 
him,  if  you  feel  that  way  inclined.  But  I'll  tell  you 
just  one  thing  —  you  can't  make  me  ashamed  of  my- 
self. I'm  twenty-nine." 

She  turned  away,  walked  with  all  the  firmness  of 
her  stride  into  the  house  and  left  Jane,  standing  there, 
withered  and  dry  between  those  borders  of  spreading 
thrift  and  flowers  all  dropping  their  seed  into  the 
mold  that  waited  for  them. 


VIII 

LIDDIARD    was    returning    to    Somerset    in 
three  days'  time.     Before  their  parting  that 
day  above  Penlock,  he  had  urged  for  their 
next  meeting  as  soon  as  she  was  free  of  household 
duties  the  following  day. 

"  Only  three  more  chances,"  said  he,  "of  being 
with  you,  and  when  I  thought  most  I  understood  you, 
understood  you  so  well  that  my  arms  seemed  the  only 
place  in  which  to  hold  you,  I  find  I  understand  you 
less  than  ever.  You  don't  ask  what  it  means.  You 
don't  say  "What  are  we  going  to  do?"  I've  told 
you  I  love  you,  but  you  don't  appear  to  want  to  know 
anything  about  the  future.  It  seems  to  me  that  any 
other  girl  would  be  wanting  to  know  what  was  to 
become  of  her.  You're  so  quiet  —  so  silent." 

Climbing  back  down  the  cliffs,  holding  on  to  one 
of  the  pine  trees  in  her  descent,  Mary  had  turned  and 
smiled  at  him.  It  was  an  inscrutable  smile  to  Lid- 
diard.  It  was  not  that  he  tried  to  understand  it.  It 
was,  as  it  penetrated  his  mind,  that  he  knew  it  to  be 
quite  impossible  of  comprehension.  More  it  was  as 
if  Nature  had  smiled  upon  him,  than  the  mere  bright 
light  of  the  parting  of  a  woman's  lips.  In  its  illumi- 
nation it  seemed  to  reveal  to  him  the  vision  of  him- 

108 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

self  in  a  strange  powerlessness.  He  felt  like  some 
tool  of  a  workman  as  it  lies  idle  on  the  bench,  waiting 
the  moment  for  those  hands  to  pick  it  up  and  give  it 
purpose.  So  it  appeared  to  him  might  a  carpenter 
have  smiled  with  pleasure  at  the  chisel  he  knew  his 
hands  could  wield  for  perfect  work.  All  the  more 
that  he  had  meant  to  say  dried  into  silence  on  his  lips. 

"  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  the  future," 
said  Mary  as  she  walked  on,  "  I  know  you  love  me 
and  I  think  I  understand  what  you  love  and  why  you 
love.  I  know  I'm  not  sophisticated.  I've  no  experi- 
ence of  the  world.  I  don't  pretend  to  understand 
these  things  in  the  light  of  experience.  I  haven't  got 
any  wisdom  about  it,  but  I  feel  it's  not  unreal  or  im- 
possible for  you  to  love  me  and  love  your  wife  as 
well.  I  don't  feel  I  want  you  to  say  you  don't  love 
your  wife  in  order  to  prove  that  you  love  me.  I  think 
it  would  finish  everything  in  my  mind  if  you  said  you 
didn't  love  her.  I'm  not  thinking  about  the  future, 
because  there  is  no  future  as  you  used  the  word.  I 
don't  ask  what  we're  going  to  do,  because  I  know 
what  we're  going  to  do." 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  In  two  days'  time,"  she  replied,  "  you're  going 
home  to  Somerset  and  I'm  going  to  stay  on  here  in 
Bridnorth." 

Suddenly  she  turned  again  swiftly  and  barred  his 
passage  as  he  came  along  down  the  cliff  path  behind 

her. 

109 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"Why  don't  you  understand  me?"  she  asked  ab- 
ruptly. "  It  all  seems  so  plain.  Don't  you  realize 
how  I've  been  brought  up?  I  know  there's  a  certain 
sacredness  in  marriage.  I've  been  trained  to  regard 
it  as  one  of  the  most  unbreakable  ties  in  the  world. 
I  wouldn't  dream  of  expecting  or  claiming  anything 
from  you,  however  much  you  said  you  loved  me. 
Whatever  happened,  I  shouldn't  dream  of  that. 
You're  half  afraid  of  it.  I  can  see  you  are.  I  don't 
love  you  any  the  less  because  I  see  it.  It  seems  nat- 
ural you  should  be  afraid.  It  seems  to  me  most  men 
would  be  with  most  women.  But  you  needn't  be." 

She  had  let  him  be  drawn  close  to  her  again.  He 
put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and  looked  with  all  his 
passion  into  her  eyes. 

"  That's  the  first  time  you've  said  you  loved,"  he 
whispered.  "  Do  you  know  what  it  sounded  like  to 
me?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Like  an  organ  playing  in  an  empty  church.  My 
God!  You're  wonderful." 

Then  she  had  let  him  kiss  her  again;  again,  her- 
self, being  the  one  to  draw  away  when  emotion  rose 
to  stifling  in  her  throat.  Again  was  he  obedient  to 
her  wishes. 

They  had  arranged  to  meet  the  next  morning  on 
the  cliffs.  Liddiard  had  promised  he  would  bring 
lunch. 

"  They'll  think  we're  up  at  the  Golf  dub,"  he  had 
no 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

said,  for  already  in  their  minds  had  appeared  that 
urgency  for  deception  which  should  secure  for  them 
the  certainty  of  their  meeting. 

But  the  next  morning,  after  her  conversation  with 
Jane,  Mary  dispatched  a  note  to  Liddiard  at  the 
White  Hart  Hotel. 

He  tore  it  open  with  fingers  that  had  dread  in 
them. 

"Meet  me  on  the  beach  at  11.30,"  she  had  written, 
"  near  the  bathing  tents.  Don't  bother  about  lunch." 

With  a  sudden  chill  it  struck  him.  It  was  all  over. 
The  night  had  brought  her  calmer  thoughts.  Emo- 
tion was  steadied  in  her  now.  She  was  not  going  to 
trust  herself  alone  with  him  again.  It  was  all  fin- 
ished. On  an  impulse  he  took  a  piece  of  paper  and 
wrote  on  it  — 

"  Have  been  callod  back  to  Somerset  this  morning ;  so 
sorry  I  shall  have  no  opportunity  to  say  good-by." 

When  he  had  written,  he  stared  at  it,  reading  it 
again  and  again. 

Was  not  this  the  best?  It  was  too  wonderful  to  be 
true;  too  wonderful  to  last.  He  knew  himself  well 
enough  to  realize  that  any  prolonged  deception  with 
his  wife  would  be  impossible.  He  had  the  honesty 
of  his  emotions;  the  courage  of  his  thoughts.  He 
could  not  practice  deception  with  any  ease.  Won- 
derful as  it  was,  could  any  wonder  compensate  for 

in 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

the  utter  wrecking  of  his  home?  It  was  not  as 
though  in  the  wonder  that  had  come  to  her,  she  re- 
fused to  recognize  his  wife.  That  was  what  brought 
him  such  amaze  of  her.  Any  other  woman  he  would 
have  expected  to  be  jealous,  exacting,  cruel.  She 
appeared  to  be  none  of  these. 

What,  in  the  name  of  God,  was  it  she  wanted? 
The  sudden  wish  to  understand,  the  sudden  curiosity 
to  find  out  communicated  with  the  energy  in  his  fin- 
gers. He  tore  up  the  note  he  had  written  and  flung 
the  pieces  away,  sending  back  the  messenger  without 
a  reply. 

It  was  playing  with  life,  a  sport  that  in  other  men 
earned  for  them  his  deepest  contempt.  It  was  play- 
ing with  life,  yet  the  call  to  it  was  greater  than  he 
could  or  cared  to  resist. 

At  half-past  eleven,  he  went  down  to  the  beach 
where  all  the  inhabitants  of  Bridnorth  sat  and  whiled 
away  their  time  till  the  midday  meal,  and  there  he 
found  her,  dressed  with  more  care  and  more  effect 
than  she  had  ever  been  before.  She  was  lying  down 
under  the  warm  shade  of  a  brilliantly  colored  par- 
asol and,  as  he  approached  her.  it  seemed  to  him  that 
there  was  a  deeper  beauty  in  her  then  than  in  any 
other  woman  in  the  world. 

"Why  this?  "  he  said  as  he  sat  down.  "  Here  of 
all  places?  Do  you  know  very  nearly  I  didn't 
come  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was  afraid  of  that,"  she  replied.     "  Afraid 

112 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

for  a  moment.  Not  really  afraid.  But  I  couldn't 
explain  in  my  note." 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"  We  were  seen  yesterday." 

"Who  by?" 

"  My  sister  —  Jane." 

"Seen  where?" 

"  By  that  gate  in  the  bracken." 

He  screwed  up  his  mouth  and  bit  at  a  piece  of  loose 
skin  on  his  lip. 

"What's  she  going  to  do?"  he  asked. 

"  Nothing.  What  can  she  do  ?  No  one  must  know 
if  we  meet  again  —  that's  all.  We  must  be  more 
careful." 

He  stared  at  her  in  bewildered  astonishment. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  muttered.  "  Some- 
times you  seem  like  adamant  when  your  voice  is  soft- 
est of  all." 

She  looked  at  him  and  with  her  eyes  told  him  that 
she  loved  him  and  with  a  little  odd  twist  of  her  lips, 
which  scarcely  she  herself  knew  of,  she  kissed  his  lips 
and  at  that  distance  at  which  he  sat  from  her,  he 
felt  the  kiss  like  a  leaf  falling  with  a  flutter  to  the 
ground. 

"  What  do  you  mean  —  we  must  be  more  careful  ?  " 
he  said  thickly.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  that?  How 
can  we  be  more  careful?  Where  else  could  we  hope 
to  be  more  alone  than  on  those  cliffs — 'unless- — 
unless — "  His  breath  clung  in  his  throat.  He 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

swallowed  it  back  and  went  on  in  a  hoarse  voice  — 
"  Unless  it  were  the  time  we  went  there." 

"  What  time?  "  she  asked. 

"  Night,"  said  he.  "  Midnight  and  all  the  hours 
of  early  morning." 

She  lay  back  on  her  cushion  beneath  the  warm 
shadow  of  her  parasol  and  closed  her  eyes,  saying 
nothing  while  he  sat  staring  at  the  curved  line  of  her 
throat. 


IX 

IT  was  no  difficult  matter  to  rise  unheard  at  mid- 
night in  her  room,  unheard  to  creep  quietly  down- 
stairs, to  open  and  close  the  kitchen  door  into  the 
yard.     Having  accomplished  that,  it  was  but  a  few 
steps  to  the  door  through  the  wall  into  the  road. 

Now  that  she  slept  alone  in  that  room  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  Mary  had  no  fear  of  discovery. 
Nevertheless  her  heart  was  beating,  an  even  but  heavy 
throb,  nor  settling  to  the  normal  pulse,  even  when  she 
found  herself  out  in  the  lane  and  turning  towards 
the  path  across  the  marshes  by  the  mouth  of  the  River 
Watchett  that  leads  a  solitary  way  to  Penlock  Head. 

She  questioned  herself  in  nothing  that  she  did. 
Her  mind  was  made.  It  was  no  moment  for  ques- 
tioning. All  questions  such  as  there  had  been,  and 
doubtless  there  were  many,  she  had  answered.  It 
was  no  habit  of  hers  to  look  back  over  her  shoulder. 
She  fixed  her  destination  with  firm  resolve,  and,  once 
the  fear  of  immediate  discovery  was  left  behind,  she 
walked  with  a  firm  stride.  Imagination  played  no 
havoc  with  her  nerves.  Already  her  heart  was  in 
their  meeting  place. 

A  restive  heart  it  was,  all  bounding  at  sudden 
visions,  leaping,  shying;  at  moments  in  riot  almost  at 
thought  of  lying  in  his  arms.  Sometimes  even  there 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

was  fear,  a  fear,  not  of  the  thing  she  would  fly;  not 
a  fear  that  made  the  heart  craven.  Rather  it  was  a 
fear  that  stetled  her  courage  to  face  whatever  might 
befall. 

Some  sense  undoubted  she  had  of  the  mad  riot  of 
passion,  that  it  could  terrify,  that  it  was  frightening 
like  sudden  thunder  bursting.  But  just  as  she  would 
lie  still  in  her  bed  at  home  through  the  fiercest  storm, 
so  now  she  knew,  however  deep  her  fear,  that  she 
would  not  complain. 

She  walked  that  way  through  the  marshes  to  their 
meeting  place  at  the  foot  of  Penlock  Hill  like  one, 
firm  in  her  step,  who  went  to  a  glorious  death. 
Death  was  terrible,  but  in  all  the  meaning  it  had,  she 
felt  no  fear  of  it. 

In  such  manner  as  this  did  Mary  Throgmorton  go 
to  the  confirmation  of  her  faith  in  Life,  and  behind 
her,  in  the  square,  white  house,  she  left  one  to  the 
bitterest  of  its  realizations. 

Fanny  could  not  sleep  that  night.  Near  midnight, 
she  lit  a  candle  and  began  to  read.  But  no  reading 
could  still  the  unsettled  temper  of  her  mind.  Again 
and  again  her  eyes  lifted  from  the  printed  page,  seek- 
ing corners  of  the  room  where,  in  that  candlelight, 
the  shadows  gathered,  harbor  for  the  vague  wander- 
ing of  her  thoughts. 

Long  after  midnight,  in  the  communicating  silence 
which  falls  about  a  sleeping  house,  she  heard  a  sound 
and  sat  up  in  bed.  Some  one  had  opened  and  shut 
the  gate  into  the  lane.  She  got  up  and  went  to  the 

116 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

window.  If  any  one  passed  into  the  road  in  front 
of  the  house,  she  must  see  them.  No  one  came.  All 
was  silence  again. 

Yet  something  within  her  insisted  upon  her  con- 
viction that  she  had  not  been  mistaken.  Some  one 
had  left  the  house  and,  if  they  had  turned  the  other 
way,  could  not  possibly  have  been  seen  by  her. 

In  that  midnight  silence,  the  fantastic  shapes  the 
beams  of  the  candle  cast,  the  heavy  darkness  of  the 
night  outside,  slight  as  the  incident  was,  grossly  ex- 
aggerated it  in  her  mind.  She  felt  she  must  tell  some 
one.  Jane  was  the  person  to  tell.  Jane's  fancies  were 
slowly  stirred.  She  might  turn  it  all  to  ridicule,  but 
if  anything  were  the  matter,  she  would  be  practical  at 
least. 

Slipping  her  arms  into  her  dressing  gown,  she  went 
out  onto  the  landing.  The  door  of  Jane's  room  was 
at  the  further  end.  As  she  passed  Mary's  door  on 
her  way,  something  came  out  of  the  recesses  of  her 
mind  and  took  her  heart  and  held  it  fast. 

Mary's  door  was  open.  She  stood  there  staring  at 
it  while  all  the  pulses  in  her  body  accelerated  to  the 
stimulus  of  her  imagination. 

Always  Mary  slept  with  her  door  closed.  It  was 
not  to  be  understood  how  she  had  departed  from  that 
habit  now  that  she  slept  alone.  Why  had  she  chosen 
to  sleep  alone?  Was  it  more  definite  a  reason  than 
Fanny  had  supposed?  What  more  definite  than 
thoughts  of  love? 

Scarcely  aware  of  the  change  of  her  intentions  or 
117 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

that  Jane  for  the  instant  had  dropped  completely  out 
of  her  thoughts,  Fanny  pushed  open  the  door  and 
softly  entered  Mary's  room. 

Just  within  the  threshold,  she  stopped,  half  held  by 
darkness  and  whispered  Mary's  name. 
"Mary  — Mary— " 

There    was   no    reply.     There   was    no    sound    of 
breathing.     Never  had  the  whole  world   seemed  so 
still.     She  was  faintly  conscious  that  her  eyes  were 
staring  wide  in  that  darkness,  staring  to  find  softly 
what  she  knew  now  the  dazzling  glitter  of  a  light 
would  reveal  to  her  in  all  its  startling  truth.     All 
beating  of  her  heart  appeared  to  be  arrested  as  she 
felt  her  way  across  the  room  to  the  bedside  table  where 
she  knew  the  box  of  matches  lay.     Something  flut- 
tered in  her  thin  breast,  like  a  thing  suspended  in  mid- 
air, but  it  had  no  relation  to  the  passage  of  the  blood 
through  her  veins.     It  seemed  to  need  purchase,   a 
solid  wall  against  it  before  it  could  beat  again.     Yet 
no  solid  wall  was  there.     Flesh  and  bones  in  all  her 
substance,  Fanny  felt  as  though  in  those  moments  her 
body  were  a  floating  thing  in  an  ether  of  sensation. 
She  found  the  matches.     With  fingers  that  were 
damp  and  cold,  she  struck  one.     It  flamed  up  with 
blinding  brightness  into  her  staring  eyes.     She  closed 
them  swiftly  and  then  she  looked. 

The  bed  was  empty.     Their  Mary  was  away. 
With  trembling  fingers,   she  lit  the   candle;   then 
gazed   down  at  the  crumpled  bedclothes,   the  sheets 
thrown  back,  the  pillow  tossed. 

118 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

With  automatic  calculation  she  leant  down  and 
felt  the  bedclothes  with  her  hand  as  one  feels  a  thing 
just  dead. 

They  were  warm  —  still  warm.  And  where  now; 
was  the  body  that  had  warmed  them? 

With  a  sudden  catch  in  her  throat  that  was  not  a 
sob  and  had  no  more  moisture  of  tears  in  it  than  a 
thing  parched  dry  with  the  sun,  she  flung  herself 
down  on  the  bed  and  leant  her  body  against  the  warm 
sheets  and  buried  her  head  in  the  warm  pillow, 
fighting  for  her  breath  like  some  frightened  beast  that 
has  been  driven  to  the  last  of  all  its  hiding  places. 


THEY  met  in  silence  on  the  worn  path  at  the 
foot  of  Penlock  Hill;  two  black  figures  join- 
ing in  the  darkness  and,   without  word  of 
greeting,   without  question   of  the  way,   turning  by 
common  consent  towards  the  moors  and  vanishing 
into  the  pine  trees. 

Never  was  their  silence  broken  while  they  climbed 
the  hill.  They  had  breath  for  that  ascent,  but  no 
more.  Coming  to  a  steep  place,  he  offered  his  hand 
to  help  her  and  then  still  held  it  till  they  reached  the 
moors. 

It  was  a  late  rising  moon  that  crept  up,  shimmering 
wet  with  its  pale  light  out  of  the  sea.  They  stood 
with  the  heather  about  their  knees  and  watched  it, 
hand  in  hand,  still  silent;  but  he  felt  her  trembling 
and  she  heard  when  he  swallowed  in  his  throat. 

"  It  had  to  be  a  night  like  this,"  he  said  presently 
when  the  moon  at  last  rose  clear  and  the  light  seemed 
to  fall  from  her  in  glittering  drops  that  splashed  like 
pieces  of  silver  into  the  sea.  "  I  know  this  is  the  one 
night  of  my  life,"  he  went  on.  "  I  know  there'll 
never  be  moments  like  it  again  as  long  as  I  live.  Per- 
haps you  don't  believe  that.  You'll  think  I've  said 
such  things  before;  yet  the  whole  of  my  existence, 

1 20 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

past,  present  and  future,  is  all  crowded  into  this  hour. 
I  know  I  shall  realize  it  the  more  fully  as  I  grow 
older  and  Time  wipes  Time  away." 

She  clung  to  his  arm.  It  was  now  she  was  most 
afraid.  The  moors  were  so  still  about  them.  Down 
in  its  hollow  amongst  the  firs  and  the  misshapen  oaks, 
the  farm  lay  silent  and  black.  No  light  was  there. 
She  thought  of  them  asleep  in  their  beds.  So  sleep- 
ing, she  thought  of  Hannah,  Jane,  and  Fanny.  Only 
they  two  were  awake  in  all  the  world  it  seemed. 
Only  for  some  vague  yet  impelling  purpose  did  the 
world  exist  at  all  and  alone  for  them. 

She  did  not  feel  at  his  mercy.  She  was  not  afraid 
of  him.  Indeed  she  clung  to  his  arm  as  they  stood 
in  the  heather,  clung  to  his  arm,  trembling,  appealing 
as  though  he  alone  were  left  between  herself  and 
Fate  to  soften  it ;  as  though  to  less  terrible  a  note,  he 
could  still  the  sound  of  voices  shouting  in  her  ears. 

These  were  sensations  she  had  no  words  for. 

"  You  stand  there  trembling,"  he  said  in  a  whisper. 
"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  my  dear?  " 

"  It's  all  so  quiet,"  she  whispered  in  reply,  and  a 
short  laugh  with  no  mirth  in  it  escaped  from  her 
throat.  "  I  don't  know  why  I  should  expect  or  want 
it  to  be  anything  else." 

"  And  do  you  want  it  to  be  anything  else  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  must,  or  I  shouldn't  have  said  that." 

"  My  dear,  are  you  afraid?  " 

She  jerked  her  head,  reluctant  to  give  assent  to 

that. 

121 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

No  wonder,  he  thought.  My  'God,  no  wonder 
women  are  afraid.  If  anything  should  happen, 
she'll  have  the  brunt  of  it.  Wouldn't  I  be  afraid  if  I 
were  her? 

Such  thoughts  as  these  caught  him  to  hesitation  a 
moment  stronger  than  the  urging  passion  in  his  blood. 

Was  it  fair  to  her?  This  girl,  who  in  that  stagnat- 
ing corner  of  the  world  knew  so  little,  was  it  fair? 
Hadn't  he  strength  to  resist  it  even  now ;  to  turn  their 
steps  back;  to  let  her  go,  the  great-hearted  thing  she 
was,  as  he  had  found  her?  If  it  might  be  the  one 
moment  in  his  life  to  him,  would  it  be  the  less  for 
letting  it  pass  by?  Would  realization  make  it  the 
greater  ?  Might  it  not  make  it  the  less  ? 

A  surging  desire  to  be  master  of  himself  swept  over 
him.  A  rushing  inclination  to  protect  her  from  the 
forces  of  Nature  in  himself  took  louder  voice  than  all 
his  needs.  She  was  too  wonderful  to  spoil  with  the 
things  that  might  happen  in  a  sordid  world. 

For  what  would  they  say  and  think,  those  sisters  of 
hers,  and  what  sort  of  hell  would  life  become  for 
her  in  those  narrow  streets  of  little  Bridnorth? 

It  was  no  good  saying  things  might  not  happen. 

What  right  had  he  to  subject  her  to  chance?  She 
was  too  fine,  too  great  of  heart  for  that.  With  all 
the  generosity  of  her  soul  she  had  placed  herself  in 
his  hands,  it  was  for  him  to  save  her  even  now,  before 
it  was  too  late.  She  was  afraid.  Then  if  there  were 
a  God  who  gave  men  strength,  he  could  be  strong 
enough  to  let  her  go. 

122 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

He  held  her  even  the  tighter  with  his  fingers  as  in 
his  mind  he  set  her  free. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  I  told  you  it  was 'strength,  not 
weakness  that  made  me  kiss  you.  I  expect  you  didn't 
believe  that.  It  was  true.  And  I  feel  stronger  now 
than  then.  We're  going  back  again,  my  dear,  now, 
without  waiting,  I  couldn't  stay  here  longer.  We're 
going  back." 

"Where?" 

She  said  it  in  her  breath. 

"  Back  to  Bridnorth  —  to  our  beds.  I  love  you, 
my  dear,  that's  why  we're  going  back." 

She  felt  a  sudden  chill  and  shivered. 

"  Back?  "  she  whispered.  No  other  word  but  that 
could  her  mind  grasp. 

As  swiftly  then  the  chill  blew  by.  She  felt  as 
though  she  stood  in  scorching  flames,  as  if  the  very 
heather  were  alight  about  her.  There  was  pain  and 
it  gave  her  a  fierce  power  she  never  thought  she  had 
possessed.  It  brought  her  anger  to  think  she  could 
suffer  so  much  for  such  return. 

Back?  They  could  not  go  back!  Not  now!  She 
had  been  through  it  all.  This  that  must  happen  was 
just  a  moment.  It  was  nothing  to  the  hours  her  mind 
had  lived  till  then. 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  flung  it  down  beside  her  in 
the  heather. 

"  It's  stifling,  this  heat,"  she  muttered.  "  Every- 
thing seems  burning." 

He  saw  her  throw  down  her  hat.  He  heard  what 
123 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

she  said.  The  blood  that  had  been  strong  like  a 
courageous  wine,  turned  all  to  water  in  his  veins.  He 
felt  his  limbs  trembling.  Something  in  her  was 
stronger  than  the  greatest  purpose  he  had  ever  had 
in  his  life.  It  was  a  purpose  he  felt  might  be  even 
stronger  than  she,  yet  knew  he  could  not  make  it  so. 

It  occurred  to  him,  with  an  ironical  laugh  in  the 
thought,  that  she  was  master  of  their  moments  and 
not  he.  And  yet  not  she  herself.  Men  were  the 
stronger  sex.  That  was  an  inherent  thought,  what- 
ever might  be  said  in  abstract  argument.  Coming  to 
such  a  moment  in  life  as  this,  it  was  the  man  who  must 
direct.  With  all  the  violence  of  his  passions,  he 
could  still  control. 

This,  with  a  loud  voice,  he  told  himself  in  his  mind. 
Yet  there  was  her  hat  lying  in  the  heather  and  there 
in  his  ears  were  the  sounds  of  her  breathing  as  she 
stood  beside  him.  His  eyes  fell  upon  her  breast  that 
rose  and  fell  as  her  heart  beat  beneath  it  and  he  knew 
the  current  he  had  breasted  with  such  confidence  of 
power  was  bearing  him  back.  In  all  his  bodily  con- 
sciousness then,  it  was  as  though  his  will  were  failing. 

One  last  effort  he  made.  Stooping,  he  picked  up 
her  hat. 

"  Shall  we  go  now  ?  "  he  said. 

She  swung  in  an  instant's  unsteadiness  as  she  stood 
before  him,  but  made  no  movement  otherwise.  One 
fear  had  gone  in  her,  thrusting  another  in  its  place. 
Something  terrified  her  now,  a  fear  in  her  heart  that 
over-rode  all  bodily  fear. 

124 


If  he  should  win  in  purpose  now,  the  world  were 
such  an  empty  mockery  of  life  as  she  well  knew  she 
had  no  strength  to  face.  Hannah,  Jane,  Fanny,  they 
might  have  survived  the  hollow  meaninglessness  of  it 
all.  They  might  have  taken  place  in  the  senseless  pro- 
cession of  Time,  puppets  of  women,  wasted  lives  in  the 
thrusting  crowd.  Never  could  she  fall  in  with  them 
now. 

Yet  what  was  it  she  was  struggling  against? 
Something  that  had  its  purpose  as  well  as  she? 
Somehow  she  sensed  it  was  the  laws  that  men  had 
made  for  the  best  of  women  to  live  by.  He  was  at- 
tempting the  best  that  was  in  him.  But  she  had  no 
pity  for  that.  If  love  and  contempt,  passion  and 
disgust  can  link  in  one,  they  met  together  in  her 
then. 

She  never  knew  she  thought  all  this.  It  was  not  in 
words  she  thought  it.  But  those  laws  were  wrong  — 
all  wrong.  Possession  was  the  very  texture  of  them 
and  all  through  the  intricate  fabric  of  life,  she  knew 
possession  did  not  count.  In  instinct,  reaching  back, 
beyond  the  most  distant  consciousness  of  mind,  she 
felt  there  was  no  possession  in  the  world.  No  more 
would  she  belong  to  him  than  he  to  her.  It  was  he 
who  must  give  that  which  she  most  needed  to  take. 
And  why  had  it  resolved  itself  into  this  struggle, 
when  all  she  had  ever  heard  or  known  of  men  was 
nothing  but  the  eagerness  of  passion  to  express  de- 
sire? 

These  were  not  thoughts.     Through  all  her  sub- 
125 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

stance  they  swept,  a  stream  of  voiceless  impulses  that 
had  more  power  than  words. 

"  We're  not  going  now,"  she  said  in  a  strange  quiet- 
ness. "  We  didn't  come  here  to  go  back.  Not  as  we 
came." 

Suddenly  she  put  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders. 
He  could  feel  her  breath  warm  and  though  her  voice 
was  so  close,  it  came  from  far  away  like  the  voices 
of  the  sirens  calling  which  he  knew  would  always  call 
and  which  he  knew  a  man  must  stop  his  ears  and  bind 
his  limbs  to  resist. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  say  it?"  she  whispered. 
"  I'm  yours  —  this  moment  I'm  yours.  For  God's 
sake  take  me  now." 

It  all  was  darkness  then.  The  moon  had  no  light 
for  them.  The  very  stars  were  blotted  out  and  far 
away  across  the  moors,  with  its  insistent  note,  a  night- 
jar whistled  to  its  mate. 


PHASE  III 


MANY  times  Fanny  tried  to  speak  of  that 
night  and  of  the  night  that  followed  before 
Liddiard    went    away,    but    there    was    a 
strange  serenity  in  Mary's  face  in  those  days  which 
suppressed  all   Fanny's  emotions  of  sympathy,  con- 
fidence and  vital  curiosity. 

There  were  times  when  she  hoped  Mary  might 
speak  herself,  if  not  of  what  actually  had  happened, 
at  least  in  some  measure  of  Liddiard  and  herself. 
Ever  since  their  youth,  being  much  of  an  age  to- 
gether, sharing  the  same  room,  they  had  had  few 
secrets  from  each  other.  If  she  were  to  ask  no  more 
than  Fanny's  opinion  of  Liddiard,  it  would  have  af- 
forded loophole  for  confidence.  One  discussion 
would  have  led  to  another.  If  necessary,  Fanny 
would  even  have  revived  in  her  memory  all  that  she 
had  told  Mary  about  her  own  little  tragedy  on  those 
cliffs.  To  have  gained  that  confidence  every  sense 
in  her  needed  so  much,  she  would  have  suffered  the 
crudest  flagellation  of  memory;  the  more  cruel  it 
was,  the  more  exquisite  would  have  been  her  pain. 

But  never  had  Mary  been  more  aloof.  Never  had 
she  been  more  distant  and  reserved.  To>  Hannah 
perhaps,  if  to  any,  she  showed  an  even  closer  affec- 
tion, sometimes  helping  her  with  the  teaching  of  her 

129 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

children  and  every  day  spending  an  hour  and  even 
more  in  their  prattling  company. 

For  long  walks  she  went  alone.  Frequently  at 
night,  when  she  had  retired  to  her  room  and  Fanny 
on  some  feminine  pretext  came  to  her  door,  she  found 
it  locked. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Mary  from  within. 

"Just  Fanny." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Oh  —  nothing!  I  wondered  if  you'd  finished 
with  that  book."  Such  as  this  might  be  her  excuse. 

"  Yes,  I  have.  I  left  it  downstairs  in  the  dining- 
room." 

"  Well  —  good-night,  Mary." 

"  Good-night,  Fanny." 

No  more  than  this.  That  locked  door  seemed  sym- 
bolical of  Mary  in  those  days.  So  had  she  barred  all 
entrance  to  her  soul  from  them  and  like  the  Holy  of 
Holies  behind  the  locked  gates  of  the  Temple  was  in- 
approachable to  their  unsanctified  feet. 

And  all  this  seeming  was  no  less  than  the  actual 
truth.  To  Mary  her  body  had  indeed  become  the 
sanctuary,  the  very  chalice  of  the  Host  of  sacred 
things.  She  knew  she  was  going  to  have  a  child. 
Such  knowledge  was  pure  folly  and  had  no  founda- 
tion upon  fact.  It  lay  only  in  her  imagination. 

Yet  lying  awake  at  night  and  waking  early  in  the 
mornings  with  the  first  light  the  sun  cast  into  her 
room,  she  had  sensations,  inventions  only  of  the 
fancy,  that  were  unmistakable  to  her. 

130 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Already  she  was  conscious  of  the  dual  life  of  her 
being.  Such  had  happened  to  her  as  indeed  had  sep- 
arated her  in  difference  from  them  all  in  that  house. 

Her  thoughts  of  Liddiard  were  glowing  thoughts. 
Sometimes  as  she  lay,  half  sleeping  in  her  bed,  she  felt 
him  there  beside  her.  But  in  all  her  fully  conscious 
moments,  she  had  no  need  of  his  return. 

Their  meetings  upon  the  cliffs  those  two  nights  be- 
fore he  had  gone  from  Bridnorth,  had  left  her  calm 
rather  than  excited.  Almost  she  would  have  resented 
his  actual  presence  in  her  life  just  then.  In  the  dis- 
tance which  separated  them,  she  felt  the  warm  sense 
of  that  part  of  her  being  he  had  become;  but  his 
absence  was  not  fretting  her  with  the  need  of  his  em- 
braces. No  furnace  of  sexual  inclination  had  there 
been  set  alight  in  her.  In  this  respect  he  had  not 
differenced  her.  She  was  the  same  Mary  Throgmor- 
ton  of  outwardly  passionless  stone,  only  the  hidden 
flame  he  had  set  light  within  her  was  that,  unquench- 
able, which  the  stress  of  circumstance  in  time  would 
burn  with  such  a  fervid  purpose  as  none  of  them  could 
stay. 

Behind  that  locked  door  of  her  bedroom  the  night 
after  his  departure,  she  sat  and  wrote  to  him.  A 
short  letter  it  was,  free  of  restraint,  as  though  across 
some  narrow  space  dividing  them,  she  had  just  called 
out  of  her  heart  to  him  and  laughed. 

"  I  love  you,"  she  wrote.  "  Don't  let  it  interfere  with 
life.  You  have  given  some  greater  thing  than  you  could 
ever  dream  of,  and  need  not  think  of  breaking  hearts  or 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

things  that  do  not  happen  in  a  healthy  world.  I  am  not 
thinking  of  the  future.  For  just  these  few  moments,  the 
present  is  wonderful  enough.  Just  because  I  belong  to 
you,  I  sign  myself —  YOUR  MARY." 

Herself,  with  jealous  hands,  that  morning  she 
posted  it  and  when  she  came  back  to  the  house  a  let- 
ter from  him  was  awaiting  her. 

Both  Jane  and  Fanny  watched  her  as,  with  an 
amazing  calmness,  she  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in  her 
lap. 

Both,  knowing  what  they  knew,  were  swift  to  ask 
themselves  again,  was  this  their  Mary  who  had  grown 
so  confident  with  love. 

A  smile  of  expectation  twitched  about  Jane's  lips 
as  Hannah,  simple  as  a  child,  inquired  who  it  was 
had  written. 

This  would  confuse  her,  Jane  thought,  and  almost 
with  the  eagerness  of  spite,  she  waited  for  the  flam- 
ing cheeks,  for  all  the  discomfort  of  her  lip  and  eye. 

Mary  looked  up  quietly  from  her  plate.  Almost 
she  felt  sorry  for  them  then  that  they  were  ignorant 
of  all  she  knew.  What  was  there  to  hide  in  telling* 
them  that?  She  realized  Jane  knew.  She  felt  her 
waiting  for  those  signs  of  the  distressing  confusion 
of  a  guilty  heart.  She  had  no  guilt  in  her  heart. 
She  was  not  ashamed.  They  had  no  power  to  shame 
her. 

"  It's  from  Mr.  Liddiard,"  she  replied  openly. 

"  Mr.  Liddiard !  "  repeated  Hannah.  "  What's  he 
writing  to  you  about?" 

132 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  I  shall  know  when  I  read  the  letter,"  replied  Mary 
quietly. 

"  I  wonder  how  you  can  manage  to  wait  till  then," 
said  Jane. 

"  I  don't  suppose  it's  very  important,"  said  Han- 
nah, and  Jane  laughed,  but  Fanny  could  bear  it  no 
longer.  None  of  them  knew  what  she  knew.  She 
left  the  room. 


II 

ALONE  to  her  room,  Mary  brought  her  let- 
ter.    That  room  had  become  the  chapel  of 
her  most  sacred  thoughts.     There,   in  that 
house,  she  was  alone.     There,  as  though  it  were  the 
very  script  of  her  faith,  she  brought  her  letter  and, 
locking  the  door,  took  it  across  to  her  chair  by  the 
window  and  sat  down. 

There  was  something  she  needed  in  this  message 
from  him.  Courage  had  not  failed  her.  No  pricks 
of  conscience  fretted  her  peace  of  mind.  More  it  was 
that  in  the  conventional  outlook  of  that  house,  in  the 
atmosphere  indeed  of  all  Bridnorth,  she  felt  set  aside. 
Nor  did  she  fear  to  be  thus  separated.  Only  it  was 
at  moments  that  it  was  chill.  At  times  she  shivered 
as  though  the  cold  edge  of  a  draught  through  unsus- 
pected chinks  had  found  her  out  and  for  the  moment 
set  back  the  temperature  of  her  courage. 

Merely  momentary  were  these  misgivings.  With 
a  shaking  of  her  shoulders,  she  could  dispel  them. 
The  touch  of  his  hand  across  that  distance  which  sep- 
arated them,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  all  to  be  contained 
in  her  letter,  these  would  drive  them  utterly  away. 

Alone  there  in  that  house,  she  needed  her  letter  and 
her  fingers  were  warm  and  her  heart  was  beating  with 
a  quiet  assurance  as  she  tore  open  the  envelope. 

134 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"Mary—"  it  began.  She  liked  that.  Her  heart 
answered  to  it.  It  was  not  the  passionate  embrace 
she  sought;  rather  it  was  the  firm  touch  of  a  hand 
in  her  own.  This  simple  use  of  her  name  fully  gave 
it  her. 

"  Mary  —  I  have  been  wanting  to  write  to  you,  my  dear, 
ever  since  I  came  home.  I  even  tried  in  the  train  coming 
back  when,  not  only  my  hand  on  the  paper,  but  it  seemed 
my  mind  as  well,  were  so  jolted  about  that  I  gave  it  up 
as  a  bad  job. 

"  I  want  you  to  believe,  my  dear,  that  I  know  my  own 
weakness,  but  only  for  your  sake  do  I  honestly  regret  it. 
For  myself,  I  have  no  real  regrets  at  all.  Knowing  you, 
as  I  have  done,  has  made  a  greater  fullness  in  my  life. 
Knowing  me,  as  you  have  done,  can  only  have  brought 
bitterness  and,  I  am  ashamed  to  think  of  it,  perhaps  shame 
to  yours." 

Mary  laid  the  letter  down  in  her  lap.  Fingers  of 
ice  were  touching  on  her  heart.  He  thought  he  had 
brought  her  shame.  Shame?  What  shame?  If 
with  his  wife  it  were  greater  fullness  to  him,  what 
fullness  must  it  not  be  to  her  with  none  other  than 
him  beside  her?  She  picked  up  the  letter  and  the 
pupils  of  her  eyes  as  she  read  on  were  sharpened  to 
the  finest  pinpoints. 

"  I  blame  myself  utterly  and  I  blame  myself  alone. 
Life  was  all  new  to  you.  It  was  not  new  to  me.  I  should 
have  had  the  courage  of  my  experience.  If  my  character 
had  been  worth  anything  at  all,  I  ought  to  have  had  the 
will  of  restraint  even  to  the  last.  I  wonder  will  you  ever 
forgive  me,  for  believe  me,  my  dear,  it  is  a  great  wish  in 

135 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

my  heart,  always  to  be  thought  well  of  by  you.  I  suppose 
thoughts  are  prayers  and  if  they  are,  then  you  do  not 
know  how  often  I  pray  that  nothing  may  happen  to  you. 
But  if  my  thoughts  are  not  answered  and  you  have  to 
suffer,  for  my  weakness,  you  may  know  I  will  do  all  I 
can.  None  need  ever  know.  With  care  that  could  be 
achieved,  but  we  will  not  talk  of  that  yet,  or  will  I  think 
of  it  if  I  can  help  it  until  you  let  me  know  for  certain. 
Not  once  did  you  mention  it,  even  after  the  first  time  we 
were  alone  in  the  wonderful  still  night  on  those  cliffs. 
So  many  another  woman  would.  So  many  another  would 
have  reckoned  the  cost  before  she  knew  the  full  account. 
You  said  nothing.  You  are  wonderful,  Mary,  and  if 
any  woman  deserves  to  escape  the  consequences  of  pas- 
sion, it  is  you." 

Again  she  laid  the  letter  down.  For  a  while  she 
could  read  no  more.  The  consequences  of  passion  I 
Reckoned  the  cost!  The  full  account!  God!  Was 
that  the  little  mind  her  own  had  met  with? 

None  need  ever  know!  With  care  that  could  be 
achieved!  She  started  to  her  feet  in  sudden  impulse 
of  feeling  that  her  body  held  a  hateful  thing.  In- 
stinctively she  turned  to  the  mirror  on  her  dressing 
table,  standing  there  some  moments  and  looking  at 
her  reflection,  as  though  in  her  face  she  might  find 
truly  whether  it  were  hateful  or  not. 

Seemingly  she  found  her  answer,  for  as  she  stood 
there,  without  the  effort  of  speech  or  conscious  mo- 
tion of  the  muscles  of  her  throat,  the  words  came  be- 
tween her  lips  — "  Fear  not,  Mary  — "  Scarcely  did 
she  know  she  had  said  them,  yet,  nevertheless,  they 

136 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

were  the  voice  of  something  more  deep  and  less  ap- 
proachable than  the  mere  thoughts  of  her  mind. 

It  was  not  hateful.  There  was  all. of  wonder  and 
something  more  beautiful  about  it  than  she  could  ex- 
press. 

Had  she  been  told  she  was  to  receive  such  a  letter, 
she  would  have  feared  to  open  it  lest  it  should  destroy 
courage  and  make  hideous  the  very  sight  of  life.  But 
in  trust  and  confidence  having  opened  it,  and  in  grad- 
ual realization  having  read,  its  effect  upon  her  had 
been  utterly  different  from  what  she  might  have  an- 
ticipated. 

Such  an  effect  as  this  upon  any  other  woman  it 
might  have  had.  But  this  Mary  Throgmorton  was 
of  imperishable  stone,  set,  not  in  sheltered  places,  or 
protected  from  the  winds  of  ill-repute,  but  apart  and 
open  for  all  the  storms  of  heaven  to  beat  upon  with 
failing  purpose  to  destroy. 

It  may  have  alienated  her  that  letter.  Indeed  it 
cut  off  and  put  her  consciously  alone.  She  knew  in 
that  moment  she  no  longer  loved.  She  knew  how  in 
the  deepest  recesses  of  her  soul  there  did  not  live  a 
father  to  her  child.  It  was  hers.  It  was  hers  alone. 
If  this  was  a  man,  then  men  were  nothing  to  women. 
Two  nights  of  burning  passion  he  had  been  with  her 
and  for  those  moments  they  had  been  inseparably 
one.  But  now  he  had  gone  as  though  the  whole  world 
divided  them.  The  future  was  hers,  not  his.  With 
that  letter  he  had  cancelled  all  existence  in  the  mean- 
ing of  life.  There  was  no  meaning  in  him.  A  mere 

137 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

shell  of  empty  substance  had  fallen  from  her.  To 
herself  she  seemed  as  though  she  were  looking  from  a 
great  height  down  which  that  hollow  thing  fluttered 
into  the  nothingness  of  space,  leaving  her  in  a  radiant 
ether  that  none  could  enter  or  disturb. 

Then  of  a  sudden  and  in  all  consciousness  now, 
there  came  with  rushing  memory  into  her  mind,  the 
thought  of  that  sermon  at  Christmas  time. 

"  Fear  not,  Mary,  for  thou  hast  found  favor  with 
God." 

She  repeated  the  words  aloud;  hearing  them  now 
as  she  spoke  them  in  her  throat  and  knowing,  with  all 
the  fullness  of  its  meaning  to  her,  the  realization  it 
gave  expression  to  when  she  voiced  the  thought  which 
that  day  in  church  had  followed  it. 

"  Who  was  the  father  of  the  Son  of  Man?  " 

Might  there  not  indeed,  as  here  with  her,  have  been 
no  father  at  all?  The  mere  servant  of  Nature, 
whipped  with  passion  to  her  purpose,  then  feared  by 
the  laws  he  and  his  like  had  made  to  construct  a  world ; 
feared  by  them,  disemboweled  by  them  and  by  Nature 
herself  driven  out  and  cast  aside. 

It  was  not  that  these  ideas  had  any  definite  sub- 
stance of  thought  in  her  mind.  Those  few  words  she 
repeated  aloud.  The  rest  had  merely  stirred  in  her 
like  some  nebulous  form  of  life,  having  neither  shape 
nor  power  of  volition. 

She  did  not  know  to  what  plane  of  thought  she  had 
raised  herself.  She  did  not  appreciate  any  distinct 
purpose  that  it  brought.  All  she  knew  and  in  a  form 

138 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

of  vision,  was  that  she  was  alone;  that  it  was  not  a 
hateful  thing  her  body  held;  that  she  was  possessed  of 
something  no  power  but  tragic  Fate  could  despoil  her 
of;  that  it  was  something  over  which  she  had  direct 
power  of  perfecting  in  creation ;  that  in  the  essence  of 
her  womanhood,  she  was  greater  than  he  who  at  the 
hands  of  Nature  had  been  driven  to  her  arms  and 
left  them,  clasping  that  air  which,  in  her  ears,  was 
full  of  the  voices  of  life,  full  of  the  greatest  meaning 
of  existence. 


Ill 

FOR  three  days  she  left  this  letter  unanswered, 
tempted  at  moments  to  misgiving  about  her- 
self and  the  future  that  spread  before  her, 
yet  always  in  ultimate  confidence,   rising  above  the 
mood  that  assailed  her. 

On  the  third  day,  receiving  another  letter  of  the 
same  remorseful  nature,  begging  her  to  write  and  say 
she  was  not  in  her  silence  thinking  the  worst  of  him, 
she  sent  her  reply.  To  the  sure  dictation  of  her 
heart,  she  wrote  — 

"  I  have  never  thought  about  forgiveness,  not  once.  I 
can  scarcely  believe  you  wrote  these  two  letters  which  I 
have  received.  Do  you  remember  once  we  talked  about 
women  wasting  their  lives  beneath  the  burden  of  preju- 
dice? You  were  the  one  man  I  had  ever  met,  you  were 
the  one  man,  I  thought,  in  all  the  world,  who  understood 
the  truth  about  women.  But  I  suppose  there  is  something 
in  the  very  nature  of  men  that  makes  it  impossible  for 
them  to  realize  the  simple  forces  that  make  us  what  we 
are.  All  they  see  are  the  thousand  conventionalities  they 
have  set  about  us  to  complicate  us.  We  are  not  com- 
plicated. It  is  only  the  laws  that  make  us  appear  so. 

''  That  first  of  our  two  nights  on  the  cliffs,  did  you  find 
me  complicated  or  difficult  of  understanding?  I  showed, 
as  well  as  gave  you  myself  and  this  is  how  you  have 
treated  that  revelation.  I  will  not  let  it  make  me  unhappy. 

140 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

It  could  so  deeply  if  I  allowed  it  to  get  the  upper  hand. 
If  I  need  anything  now,  now  that  I  know  I  am  going  to 
have  a  child  —  don't  be  frightened  yet,  I  only  feel  it  in 
my  heart  —  do  you  think  it  is  help  or"  advice  for  con- 
cealment? Do  you  think  it  is  any  assistance  to  me  to 
know  that  all  the  world  will  be  ashamed  of  me,  but  only 
you  are  not? 

"  Why  do  you  even  hint  about  shame  to  me  ?  Did  you 
think  I  shared  what  you  call  your  weakness?  Did  you 
think  for  those  moments  that,  as  you  say  of  yourself,  I 
forgot  or  lost  restraint? 

"  Never  write  to  me  again.  Unfortunately  for  me,  it  is 
you  most  of  all  who  could  succeed  in  making  me  feel 
ashamed  and  I  will  not  be  ashamed.  What  lies  before  me 
is  not  to  be  endured  but  to  be  made  wonderful.  Will 
shame  help  me  to  do  that? 

"  Perhaps  you  think  I  am  an  extraordinary  woman. 
You  say  to  yourself,  '  Well,  if  that's  her  nature,  it  can't  be 
helped,  we've  got  to  go  through  with  it.'  You  would  not 
believe  me  if  I  told  you  that  all  women  in  their  essence 
are  the  same.  It  is  only  with  so  many  that  the  prize  of 
self-advancement,  the  hollow  dignity  of  social  position, 
the  chimera  —  I  don't  know  if  I've  spelt  it  right  —  of 
good  repute,  all  of  which  you  offer  them  if  they  obey  the 
laws  you  have  made  to  protect  your  property,  are  more 
attractive  and  alluring  than  the  pain  and  discomfort  and 
difficulty  of  bringing  children  into  a  competitive  world. 
But  you  call  this  the  line  of  least  resistance. 

"  Because  you  find  the  majority  of  women  so  ready  to 
be  slaves  to  your  laws  do  you  imagine  that  they  are  not  in 
essence  the  same  as  me  ?  But  starve  one  of  those  women 
as  I  and  my  sisters  have  been  starved  by  circumstance, 
deny  to  her  the  first  function  which  justifies  her  existence 
by  the  side  of  men  with  their  work,  as  thousands  and 
thousands  are  denied,  taking  in  the  end  any  husband  who 

141 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

will  fulfill  their  needs  of  life,  and  you  will  find  her  be- 
have as  I  behaved. 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  for  one  thing.  Since  I  met  you, 
my  mind  has  opened  out  and  in  a  lot  of  things,  such  as 
these  which  I  am  writing,  I  can  think  in  words  what  a  lot 
of  women  only  feel  but  cannot  express.  I  have  to  thank 
you  too,  that  for  those  moments  I  loved.  So  many  women 
don't  even  do  that,  not  as  they  understand  love. 

"  All  that  time  together,  playing  golf,  walking  and  talk- 
ing on  the  cliffs,  I  felt  our  minds  were  at  one.  That  with 
a  woman  is  the  beginning  of  love.  All  unities  follow  in- 
evitably after  that.  It  is  not  so  with  men.  Your  letters 
prove  it  to  me.  Perhaps  this  is  why  the  formality  of 
marriage  is  so  necessary  to  make  a  screen  for  shame.  I 
wonder  if  you  realize  in  how  many  married  women  it  is 
a  screen  and  no  more.  I  know  now  that  to  my  own 
mother  it  was  no  more  than  that. 

"  I  had  no  shame  then.  I  loved.  Loving  no  longer,  I 
still  now  have  no  shame  because,  and  believe  me  it  is  not 
in  anger,  we  have  no  cause  to  meet  again.  I  know  I  am 
going  to  have  a  child.  I  know  he  is  going  to  be  wonderful 
if  I  can  make  him  so.  I  shall  get  my  love  from  him  as  he 
grows  in  years  and  I  am  sure  there  is  only  one  love. 
Passion  is  only  an  expression  of  it.  My  life  will  be  fuller 
than  yours  with  all  the  possessions  you  have.  Bringing 
him  up  into  the  world  will  absorb  the  whole  heart  of  me. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  —  I  feel  a  great  moment  of  pain  to  think 
what  we  have  lost  and  truly  I  do  not  forget  my  gratitude 
for  what  I  have  gained.  Never  worry  yourself  in  your 
thoughts  by  what  you  imagine  I  shall  have  to  face.  I 
know  what  my  sisters  will  say,  but  what  they  will  say 
will  be  no  expression  of  the  envy  they  will  feel.  I  am 
quite  human  enough  to  find  much  courage  in  that. 

"  When  it  comes,  I  expect  I  shall  leave  Bridnorth.  I 
confess  I  am  not  a  Bombastes.  I  shall  hide  my  shoes  in 
my  cupboard,  but  none  shall  step  into  them,  nevertheless. 

142 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  I  hate  to  say  this  and  do  not  say  it  in  any  backbiting 
spirit.  I  know  you  will  think  you  have  to  support  me. 
You  have  not.  Fortunately  my  share  of  what  we  girls 
have  is  enough  to  support  me  and  enable  me  to  bring  him 
up  as  I  mean  him  to  be  brought  up.  So  please  send  me 
nothing.  It  would  hurt  me  to  hurt  you  by  returning  it. 

"  I  do  not  think  I  can  say  any  more.  I  count  them  up 
—  six  sheets  of  paper.  Yet  I  believe  you  will  read  them 
all. 

"  Good-by." 


IV 

IN  the  appointed  time,  Mary  knew  that  the  reality 
of  her  life  had  come  to  her.     At  the  first  op- 
portunity after  the  sureness  of  her  knowledge, 
she  attended  Holy  Communion  in  Bridnorth  church. 
It  was  not  so  much  to  pray  she  went,  as  to  wait  in 
that  silence  which  falls,  even  upon  the  unimaginative 
mind,  during  the  elevation  of  the  host  and  all  the 
accompanying  ceremony  of  the  rubric. 

She  asked  no  favor  of  her  God.  She  waited.  She 
said  no  prayers.  She  listened.  It  was  a  spiritual 
communion,  beyond  the  need  of  symbols,  above  the 
necessity  of  words.  Psychology  has  no  function  to 
describe  it.  It  was  her  first  absolute  submission  of 
both  mind  and  body  to  the  mystery  of  life.  Here 
consciously,  she  felt  she  could  do  nothing.  Here,  as 
it  might  be,  was  the  instant  of  conception.  Whatever 
it  was,  whether  it  were  God  or  Nature,  this  was  the 
moment  in  which  she  held  herself  in  suspension,  feel- 
ing she  had  no  conscious  part  to  play. 

When  she  rose  from  her  knees,  it  was  with  an  inner 
and  hidden  knowledge  of  satisfaction  that  she  had 
passed  successfully  through  some  ordeal  of  her  soul; 
that  whatever  it  was  within  her,  it  had  not  failed  in 
the  supreme  test  of  her  being;  that,  in  a  word,  she 

144. 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

was  a  woman  at  last  and  that  life  had  justified  itself 
in  her. 

If  such  a  moment  there  be  as  this  instant  of  concep- 
tion; if  in  her  soul  where  no  words  conceal  and  no 
thoughts  have  substance,  a  woman  can  spiritually  be 
aware  of  it,  such  an  instant  this  was  in  the  life  of 
Mary  Throgmorton. 

From  this  moment  onward,  she  set  her  mind  upon 
definite  things.  In  two  months'  time  she  had  planned 
everything  that  she  was  to  do. 

Passing  once  through  Warwickshire  lanes  one  sum- 
mer when  she  had  been  staying  with  friends  in  Henley- 
in-Arden,  a  storm  of  rain  had  driven  them  for  shelter. 
They  had  come  to  the  towpath  of  the  canal  near  by 
where  it  flows  into  the  lock  at  Lonesome  Ford  when 
the  clouds  that  had  been  threatening  all  day  heaped 
up  to  thunder  and  broke  above  them  with  a  sudden 
deluge  of  rain. 

Sharply  from  the  towpath  where  they  walked,  the 
ground  rose  in  high  banks  of  apple  orchard,  through 
the  trees  of  which,  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  could  just 
be  seen  the  half-timbered  gables  of  an  old  farm- 
house. 

Taking  a  gap  in  the  hedge  and  climbing  the  or- 
chard hill,  they  had  hastened  there  for  shelter.  It 
was  close  upon  tea-time.  The  farmer's  wife  had  let 
them  in. 

She  was  a  sour-visaged  woman,  slow  and  sparing  of 
speech,  yet  in  the  silent,  considerate  way  she  gave 
them  welcome  and  tended  to  their  wants,  there  had 

145 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

been  something  intangible  yet  inviting  that  attracted 
Mary  to  her. 

With  an  expression  upon  her  long,  thin  and  deeply 
lined  face  that  suggested  resentment  to  them  all,  she 
showed  them  into  the  best  parlor,  the  room  that  had 
its  black  horsehaired  sofa,  its  antimacassars  on  all 
the  chairs,  its  glass  cases  containing,  one  .a  stuffed 
white  owl,  the  other  a  stuffed  jay;  the  room  where  the 
family  Bible  lay  on  a  home-worked  mat  reposing  on 
a  small  round  table;  the  room  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  their  lives,  but  was  an  outward  symbol  of  them 
as  God-fearing  and  cleanly  people. 

In  time  Mary  came  to  learn  that  with  those  who 
work  upon  the  land,  there  are  no  spare  moments ;  that 
the  duties  and  demands  of  the  earth  know  no  Sabbath 
day  of  rest.  That  afternoon,  she  pictured  them  on 
Sundays  in  that  room,  with  hands  folded  in  their  laps, 
reading  perhaps  with  quaint  intonations  and  inflec- 
tions from  the  massive  volume  on  its  crocheted  mat. 
It  was  never  as  thus  she  saw  them. 

As  they  went  by,  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  parlor 
kitchen  with  its  heavy  beams  of  oak  in  the  ceiling, 
she  had  wished  they  might  have  had  their  tea  there. 
But  the  old  lady  was  too  unapproachable  for  her  to 
ask  such  a  favor  then.  In  the  best  parlor  they  sat, 
eating  the  bread  and  butter  and  homemade  bullace 
jam  which  she  had  brought  them,  commenting  upon 
the  enlarged  photographs  in  their  gilt  frames  on  the 
walls. 

One  picture  there  was  of  a  young  girl,  a  very  early 
146 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

photograph  which  had  suffered  sadly  from  unskillful 
process  of  enlargement.  Yet  unskillful  though  it 
had  been,  the  photograph  had  not  been  "able  to  destroy 
its  certain  beauty.  Mary  had  called  her  friends'  at- 
tention to  it,  but  it  seemed  they  could  not  detect  the 
beauty  that  she  saw. 

"  I  don't  think  a  long  face  like  that  is  beautiful  in 
a  woman,"  one  of  them  had  said. 

"  I  didn't  mean  the  features,"  replied  Mary. 
"  She  looks  — " 

She  stopped,  words  came  in  no  measure  with  her 
thoughts  in  those  days.  But  when  the  farmer's  wife 
had  returned  later  to  inquire  if  they  wanted  any  more 
bread  and  butter  cut,  she  questioned  her  with  an  in- 
terest none  could  have  resented  as  to  who  the  girl 
might  be. 

"  Is  she  a  daughter  of  yours?  "  asked  Mary. 

"  Darter  ?  "  She  shook  her  head  and  where  an- 
other woman  might  have  smiled  at  the  compliment  of 
Mary's  interest,  she  merely  turned  her  eyes  upon  the 
portrait  as  though  she  looked  across  the  years  at  some 
one  who  had  gone  away.  "  That  was  me,"  said  she. 
"  It  was  took  of  me  three  days  afore  I  was  married. 
My  old  man  had  it  out  a  few  years  ago  and  got  it 
made  big  like  that.  Waste  of  money  I  told  him." 

And  with  that,  having  learnt  their  needs,  she  went 
out  of  the  room. 

It  was  later,  when  they  had  finished  tea,  and  the  sun 
was  striking  through  the  lace  curtains  into  that  room, 
almost  obliterating  its  artificialities,  when  indeed  they 

147 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

knew  the  storm  was  over,  they  left  the  parlor  and 
finding  the  farmer  with  his  wife  in  the  kitchen,  came 
there  asking  what  they  must  pay. 

"  We  beant  settin'  out  to  provide  teas,"  she  replied 
with  no  gratuity  of  manner  in  her  voice. 

"  I  guess  you  didn't  come  lookin'  for  tea,"  said  the 
farmer,  who  had  evidently  talked  it  over  with  her  and 
decided  what  they  should  do  and  say  —  "  The  storm 
drove  'ee." 

While  her  friends  stood  arguing  upon  the  issue, 
Mary  had  looked  about  her,  observing  the  warm  color 
of  the  brick-paved  floor,  the  homely  sense  of  confi- 
dence in  the  open  chimney  with  its  seats  at  either  side, 
the  jar  of  wild  flowers,  all  mingled,  that  stood  upon 
the  window  sill,  the  farmer's  gun  on  its  rest  over  the 
mantel-shelf;  then  the  farmer  and  his  wife  them- 
selves. 

Once  having  seen  that  enlarged  portrait,  she  knew 
well  what  it  was  that  attracted  her  to  the  sour  visage, 
the  uninviting  expression  and  the  attenuated  features 
of  the  farmer's  wife.  The  girl  she  had  been,  the  wist- 
ful creature  she  had  set  out  for  company  with  through 
life,  somewhere,  lurking,  was  in  company  with  her 
still.  She  needed  the  finding,  that  was  all. 

"  Waste  of  money,"  she  had  told  him.  There  lay 
much  behind  that  accusation;  much  that  Mary  if  she 
had  had  time  would  have  liked  to  find  out. 

The  farmer  himself,  at  first  glance,  would  have 
taken  the  heart  of  any  one.  He  smiled  at  them  as  he 
spoke  with  an  ingenuous  twinkle  of  good  humor  in 

148 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

his  eyes.  A  mere  child  he  was;  a  child  of  the  land. 
Such  wisdom  as  he  had,  of  the  land  it  was.  The 
world  had  nothing  of  it.  His  thoughts,  his  emotions, 
they  were  in  the  soil  itself.  Adam  he  was,  turned 
out  of  his  garden,  scarce  conscious  of  the  flaming 
sword  that  had  driven  him  from  the  fruitful  places, 
but  seeking  the  first  implement  his  hands  could  find 
to  toil  with  and  bring  the  earth  to  good  account. 

Unable  to  persuade  these  two  that  they  should  give 
any  return  for  the  meal  they  had  had,  they  expressed 
their  gratitude  as  best  they  could  and  went  away.  It 
was  not  until  they  had  come  back  through  the  sloping 
orchard  and  were  again  upon  the  towing  path  of  the 
canal,  that  Mary  thought  of  the  possibility  of  return- 
ing there  at  some  other  time. 

The  simplicity  of  the  life  of  those  two,  the  sense 
she  had  had  of  that  nearness  to  the  earth  they  lived 
on  had  touched  her  imagination  deeper  than  she  knew. 

"  Just  wait  for  me  a  moment,"  said  she.  "  I  must 
go  back — "  when,  before  they  could  ask  her  reason, 
she  had  left  them  and  was  running  back  through  the 
orchard. 

The  door  which  led  into  the  parlor  kitchen  was 
opened  to  her  knocking  by  the  farmer's  wife.  Face 
to  face  with  her  purpose,  she  stammered  in  confusion 
as  she  spoke. 

"  I  know  you  don't  think  of  supplying  teas  or  any- 
thing like  that,"  she  said  awkwardly  — "  but  I  do  so 
like  your  —  your  farm,  your  house  here,  that  I  won- 
dered if  there'd  ever  be  any  chance  of  coming  back 

149 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

again  for  a  little  while ;  staying  here  I  mean.  I  won- 
dered if  you  would  let  me  a  room  and  —  if  there'd  be 
any  trouble  about  providing  me  with  meals,  then  let 
me  get  them  for  myself.  I  should  like  to  come  here 
so  much  that  I  had  to  come  back,  just  to  ask." 

With  no  change  of  expression,  no  sign  of  pleasure 
at  Mary's  appreciation  of  their  home,  the  farmer's 
wife  looked  round  at  her  husband  still  seated  at  his 
tea  and  said, 

"  Well  —  what  do  'ee  think,  Mr.  Peverell  ?  " 

His  mouth  was  full.  He  passed  the  back  of  his 
hand  across  it  in  the  effort  of  swallowing  to  make 
way  for  words  and  then,  as  best  he  could,  he  mum- 
bled, 

"  'Tis  for  you  to  say,  Missis.  'Twon't  stop  me 
milking  cows  or  cuttin'  barley." 

She  turned  to  Mary. 

"  'Ee'd  have  a  mighty  lot  to  do  for  'eeself,"  she  had 
said  — "  If  'ee  come,  'twould  be  no  grand  lodging. 
'Ee'd  be  one  of  us." 

What  better,  she  had  thought.  To  be  one  of  them 
was  to  be  one  with  everything  about  them,  the  fruit 
trees  in  the  orchards,  the  dead  leaves  and  the  new. 
Even  then,  although  she  never  knew  it  clearly,  the 
fruitful  scents  of  the  earth  had  entered  and  for  long 
were  to  linger  in  her  nostrils. 

It  was  not  that  she  had  any  knowledge  of  the  soil, 
or  could  have  explained  to  herself  how  one  crop  should 
follow  another.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  laws  a 
farmer  lives  by,  the  servant  of  Nature  that  he  is,  or 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

the  very  earth  he  grows  to  be  a  part  of  and  learns 
to  finger  as  it  were  the  very  ingredient  of  his  being. 

She  had  not  been  trained  to  reason".  All  that  she 
felt  of  the  attraction  of  that  place  did  not  suggest 
itself  in  the  direct  progression  of  purposes  to  her 
mind.  There  were  the  odors  of  life  in  the  air.  She 
took  them  in  through  her  senses  alone.  Through  her 
senses  alone  she  knew  their  fecundity.  That  fruit- 
fulness  it  was  which  filtered  like  drops  of  some  magic 
elixir  into  her  blood. 

It  had  been  two  years  since  she  went  that  day  to 
Yarningdale  Farm,  yet  the  odors  still  lingered,  calling 
some  sense  and  purpose  in  her  soul  which,  until  the 
sermon  at  that  Christmas-time  and  following  her 
meeting  with  Liddiard,  had  been  all  vague,  illusive  and 
intangible. 

Now,  with  more  assurance,  she  knew.  In  that  old 
farmhouse,  if  they  would  have  her,  she  was  going  to 
bring  her  child  into  the  world.  There,  in  what  seemed 
not  the  long  but  the  speedy  months  to  her,  she  was 
going  to  breathe  in  the  scents  of  the  earth,  absorbing 
the  clean  purposes  of  life  as  they  are  set  fiorth  in  the 
tilling  of  the  soil,  the  sowing  of  the  seed,  the  reaping 
of  the  harvest. 

It  was  to  be  close  to  the  very  earth  itself  she  needed. 
There  is  no  clear  line  of  argument  to  trace  in  a 
woman's  mind.  Her  marriage  bed  had  been  the 
heathered  moors.  The  scent  of  the  earth  had  been 
all  about  her  as  she  lay  in  Liddiard's  arms.  No  soft 
or  spotless  pillows  had  there  been  for  her  head  to 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

rest  on.  In  no  garments  had  she  decked  herself  for 
his  embrace.  No  ceremony  had  there  been,  no  for- 
malities observed.  There  was  nothing  that  had  hap- 
pened to  associate  it  in  her  mind  with  the  conventional 
wedding  night,  blessed  by  the  church,  approved  of  by 
all. 

If  blessing  there  had  been,  and  truly  she  felt  there 
had,  then  the  stars  had  blessed  them,  the  soft  wind 
from  off  the  sea  across  the  heather  roots  had  touched 
her  with  its  fingers;  the  dark  night  with  all  its  si- 
lence had  been  full  approval  in  her  heart. 

And  he  who  was  to  come  out  of  such  a  union  as 
that,  what  else  could  he  be  but  a  wild,  uncultivated 
thing?  A  seed  falling  from  the  tree,  not  sowed  by 
the  hand  of  man  in  exotic  places ;  a  young  shoot  find- 
ing its  soil  in  the  rotting  fibers  of  earth  that  only 
Nature  had  prepared ;  a  green  bough  that  Nature  only 
in  her  wildest  could  train,  fighting  its  way  upwards 
through  the  forest  shades  to  the  clear  brilliance  of  the 
eternal  light. 

Such  she  felt  he  was.  As  such  she  meant  him  to 
be.  There  was  no  science  in  her  purpose,  no  clear 
argument  of  thought.  No  reason  other  than  this  first 
impression  she  had  had  can  be  traced  to  justify  the 
determination  to  which  she  came. 

To  Mrs.  Peverell  she  wrote  asking  if  they  could  let 
her  have  their  little  room  beneath  the  eaves  of  the 
thatch  when,  hearing  it  was  vacant,  she  replied  that 
she  would  come  down  for  a  day  or  two  and  see  them 
first. 

152 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

But  before  she  went,  one  thing  had  she  set  herself 
to  perform.  Now  her  sisters  must  know.  Her  mind 
was  prepared.  It  was  Hannah  she-  determined  to 
tell. 


IT  was  a  morning  in  the  middle  of  the  week,  after 
the    children's    lessons    were    over.     With    eyes 
that  recorded  intangible  impressions  to  her  mind, 
Mary  watched  her  eldest  sister  kissing  each  one  as  they 
went.     With  each  one,  it  was  not  merely  a  disposal, 
but  a  parting;  not  a  formality  but  an  act,  an  act  that 
had  its  meaning,  however  far  removed  it  might  have 
been  from  Hannah's  appreciation  of  it. 

"What  do  you  feel  about  those  children?"  she 
asked  her,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  when  the  last 
one  had  gone  and  the  door  had  closed. 

"  Feel  about  them  ?  " 

Hannah  looked  up  in  surprised  bewilderment. 

"  I've  never  thought  what  I  felt,"  she  added. 
"  They're  darlings  —  is  that  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"No  —  that's  not  quite  what  I  mean.  Of  course 
they're  darlings.  Do  you  ever  think  what  you  feel, 
Hannah?" 

"  No." 

"  Never  think  in  words  —  all  higgledy-piggled> 
and  upside-down,  of  course  —  but  words  that  explain 
to  you,  even  if  they  couldn't  explain  to  anybody  else?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  don't  believe  any  of  us  have  ever  done  that," 
154 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Mary  continued  — "  unless  perhaps  Jane.  She 
thinks  in  words  sometimes,  I  believe,  but  I'm  sure  they 
hurt  her  when  she  does,  so  she  probably  does  it  as 
little  as  possible.  Just  to  say  they're  darlings  doesn't 
convey  what  you  feel.  You  don't  know  what  you  do 
really  feel  —  do  you  ?  " 

"No  —  I  suppose  I  don't." 

"  I  expect  that's  why,  when  you  have  to  deal  with 
real  things  where  words  only  can  explain,  they  come 
like  claps  of  thunder  and  are  all  frightening.  I've 
got  something  to  tell  you  that  will  frighten  you,  Han- 
nah. But  it  wouldn't  have  frightened  you  so  much  if 
you'd  ever  thought  about  those  children  in  words.  I 
don't  believe  it  would  frighten  Jane.  It  would  only 
make  her  angry." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Hannah.  She  was  not  fright- 
ened as  yet.  Mary's  voice  was  so  quiet,  her  manner 
so  undisturbed  and  assured,  that  as  yet  no  faint  sus- 
picion of  what  she  was  to  hear  was  troubling  her 
mind. 

"  Let's  come  out  into  the  garden,"  said  Mary. 

Even  there,  with  that  issue,  she  felt  she  wanted  the 
light  of  open  air  the  growing  things  about  her,  the 
environment  her  whole  body  now  was  tuned  to.  That 
room  was  confined,  and  suffocating  to  her.  There 
were  the  two  portraits  on  the  wall,  who  never,  with 
all  their  love,  would  be  able  to  understand  what  she 
had  to  tell.  There  were  the  echoes  of  countless 
family  prayers  that  had  had  no  meaning.  There  was 
all  the  atmosphere  of  conventional  formality  in  which 

155 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

she  felt  neither  she  nor  her  child  had  any  place.  It 
was  of  him  she  was  going  to  tell.  She  could  not  tell 
it  there. 

"  Come  out  into  the  garden,"  she  repeated  and  her- 
self led  the  way,  when  there  being  something  to  hear 
which  already  Mary  had  wrapped  in  this  mystery  of 
introduction,  Hannah  could  do  no  less  than  follow 
with  obedience. 

It  was  between  those  borders,  now  massed  white 
with  double  pinks,  softening  the  air  with  the  scent  of 
them  as  they  breathed  it  in,  that  they  walked,  just  as 
Jane  and  she  had  done  before. 

"Do  you  ever  wish  you'd  had  a  child,  Hannah?" 
Mary  asked  presently,  and  Hannah  replied  — 

"  I  don't  think  I've  ever  really  wanted  to  be  mar- 
ried." 

So  much  was  it  an  answer  that  would  have  satisfied 
her  once,  that  Mary  smiled  to  think  how  different  she 
had  become.  Not  for  one  moment  had  it  been  her 
meaning  that  Hannah  should  see  that  smile.  Not  for 
one  moment  would  she  have  understood  it.  Yet  she 
saw.  The  sudden  seizing  of  her  fingers  on  Mary's 
arm  almost  frightened. 

"  You  smiled,'"  she  whispered  — "  Why  did  you 
smile?" 

The  honest  simplicity  of  her  brought  Mary  to  a 
sudden  confusion.  She  could  not  answer.  Seeing 
that  smile,  Hannah  had  caught  her  unawares  in  her 
thoughts.  She  knew  then  she  was  going  to  hurt  this 
gentle  creature  with  her  simple  view  of  life  and  her 

156 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

infinite  forbearance  of  the  world's  treatment  of  her. 

Here  was  the  first  moment  when  truly  she  felt 
afraid.  Here  was  the  first  time  she  realized  that 
pain  is  the  inevitable  accompaniment  of  life.  She 
tried  to  begin  what  she  had  to  say,  but  fear  dried  up 
the  words.  She  moistened  her  lips,  but  could  not 
speak. 

"  Tell  me  why  you  smiled,"  repeated  Hannah  im- 
portunately. "  What  is  it  you've  got  to  say  ?  " 

Mary  had  thought  it  would  be  easy.  So  proud,  so 
sure  she  was,  that  abruptness  had  seemed  as  though 
it  must  serve  her  mood.  She  tried  to  be  abrupt,  but 
failed. 

"  Oh,  Hannah,  I've  got  such  a  lot  to  say,"  she 
began,  and  with  an  impulse  took  her  sister's  arm  and 
of  a  sudden  felt  this  gentle,  gray-haired  woman  might 
be  as  a  mother  to  her  when  all  the  world,  as  now  she 
was  realizing  with  her  first  confession  of  it,  would  be 
turned  against  her.  "  I  don't  know  how  to  begin. 
I  know  you  must  understand,  and  I  think  I  want  you 
to  understand,  more  than  anybody  else.  No  one  else 
will.  Of  course  I  can  be  sure  of  that." 

She  had  succeeded,  as  well  she  knew  she  would,  in 
frightening  Hannah  now.  She  was  trembling. 
Leaning  on  her  arm,  Mary  could  feel  those  vibrations 
of  fear.  So  unused  to  all  but  the  even  flow  of  life, 
and  finding  herself  thus  suddenly  in  a  morass  of  ap- 
prehension, the  poor  creature's  mind  was  floundering 
helplessly.  One  step  of  speculation  after  another  only 
left  her  the  more  deeply  embedded  in  her  fears. 

157 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is,"  she  whispered  — "  Tell  me 
quickly.     Was  it  that  Mr.  Liddiard  ?  " 

How  surely  she  had  sensed  the  one  thing  terrible 
in  her  life  a  woman  can  have  to  tell.  Never  having 
known  the  first  thrilling  thoughts  of  love,  her  mind 
had  reached  at  once  to  this.  Countless  little  incidents ' 
during  the  time  that  Liddiard  was  in  Bridnorth,  in- 
cidents that  had  attracted  her  notice  but  which  she 
had  never  observed,  had  come  now  swiftly  together 
as  the  filings  of  iron  are  drawn  to  a  magnet's  point. 
The  times  they  were  together,  the  letters  she  had  re- 
ceived, sometimes  a  look  in  Jane's  face  when  she 
spoke  of  him,  sometimes  a  look  in  Fanny's  when  she 
was  silent.  One  by  one  but  with  terrible  accelera- 
tion, they  heaped  up  in  her  mind  to  the  pinnacle  of 
vague  but  certain  conclusion. 

"  Was  it  that  Mr.  Liddiard?  "  she  repeated. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  felt  it  was.  I  felt  it  was.  Don't  say  you're 
in  love  with  him  —  a  married  man  —  Oh,  Mary,  that 
would  be  terrible." 

"  I'm  not  in  love,"  said  Mary. 

The  deep  sigh  that  drew  through  Hannah's  lips 
made  her  afraid  the  more.  How  could  she  tell  her? 
Every  moment  it  was  becoming  harder.  Every  mo- 
ment the  pride  she  felt  was  not  so  much  leaving  her 
as  being  crowded  into  the  back  of  her  mind  by  these 
conventional  instincts,  the  habit  of  affection  for  her 
family,  the  certain  knowledge  of  their  shame,  the  dis- 
proportionate value  of  their  thoughts  of  her. 

158 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

A  few  hours  before  she  had  asked  herself  what 
mattered  it  if  they  thought  the  very  worst,  if  they 
had  no  sympathy,  if  with  their  contempt  of  her  they 
turned  her  from  the  house.  In  any  case  she  was  go- 
ing. Never  could  she  stay  there.  Never  could  this 
child  of  hers  breathe  first  the  Stirling  air  that  she  had 
breathed  so  long. 

Yet  now  when  her  moment  of  confession  was  upon 
her,  pride  seemed  a  little  thing  to  help  her  through. 
The  piteous  fear  in  Hannah  weakened  it  to  water  in 
her  blood.  She  felt  sorry  for  her  sister  who  had 
done  nothing  to  deserve  the  shame  she  was  sure  to 
feel.  Conscious  of  that  sorrow,  she  almost  was 
ashamed  of  herself.  Nothing  was  there  as  yet  to 
whip  her  pride  to  life  again.  With  mighty  efforts  of 
thought,  she  tried  to  revive  it,  but  it  lay  still  in  her 
heart.  This  fear  of  Hannah's,  her  deep  relief  when 
the  worst  she  could  think  of  proved  untrue,  kept  it 
low.  With  all  the  strength  she  had,  Mary  could  not 
resuscitate  her  pride. 

"What  is  it  then?"  Hannah  continued  less  tremu- 
lously— "What  is  it  if  you're  not  in  love?  Was  he 
a  brute?  Did  he  make  love  to  you?" 

With  all  the  knowledge  she  had  gained,  Mary  now 
found  herself  amazed  at  this  simplicity  of  mind  which 
once  quite  well  she  knew  had  been  her  own.  For  an 
instant  it  gave  her  courage.  For  an  instant  it  set 
up  this  new  antagonism  she  had  found  against  the 
laws  that  kept  her  sex  in  the  bondage  of  servitude  to 
the  needs  of  man.  So  in  that  instant  and  with  that 

159 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

courage,  she  spoke  it  out,  abruptly,  sharply  as  she  had 
known  she  must.  The  swift,  the  sudden  blow,  it 
made  the  cleanest  wound. 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  child,  Hiannah,"  she  said,  and 
in  a  moment  that  garden  seemed  full  of  a  surging  joy 
to  her  that  now  they  knew;  and  in  a  moment  that 
garden  seemed  to  Hannah  a  place  all  horrible  with 
evil  growing  things  that  twined  about  her  heart  and 
brought  their  heavy,  nauseating  perfume,  pungent 
and  overbearing  to  her  nostrils. 

She  dropped  Mary's  arm  that  held  her  own.  With 
lips  already  trembling  to  the  inevitable  tears,  she  stood 
still  on  the  path  between  those  rows  of  double  pinks, 
now  bearing  up  an  evil,  heavy  scent  to  her,  as  she 
stared  before  her. 

It  could  not  be  true !  How  could  it  be  true  ?  She 
fought  with  that,  the  refusal  to  believe  its  truth. 

"  He  was  only  here  a  fortnight,"  she  muttered 
oddly.  "  You  didn't  know  him.  You'd  never  met 
him  before.  You  only  played  golf  with  him,  or  you 
walked  on  the  cliffs.  You  didn't  know  him.  How 
can  you  expect  me  to  believe  it  happened  —  in  a  fort- 
night? Mother  was  engaged  to  father  for  two  years. 
I  —  I  wasn't  born  till  fourteen  months  after  they'd 
been  married !  " 

She  laughed  —  a  thin  crackle  of  laughter. 

"  You're  a  fool,  Mary.  You  don't  know  what 
you're  talking  about.  He  was  only  here  a  fortnight." 

"  It's  quite  true,  Hannah,"  said  Mary  quietly. 
"  I'm  going  to  have  a  child." 

160 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Her  heart  was  beating  evenly  now.  They  knew. 
Pride  was  returning  with  warming  blood  through  her 
veins.  Less  and  less  she  felt  the  chijl  of  fear. 

Swiftly  Hannah  turned  upon  her. 

"  But  you  said  you  weren't  in  love !  "  she  exclaimed. 

How  quickly  she  was  learning!  Already  love 
might  have  explained,  excused,  extenuated. 

"  I'm  not  in  love,"  said  Mary  — "  I  know  now  I'm 
not  in  love.  I  was  at  the  time.  At  least  I  know 
what  love  is.  The  thing  you  love  doesn't  destroy 
love  when  it  goes.  Once  you  love,  you  can't  stop 
loving.  The  object  may  alter.  Your  love  doesn't. 
If  there's  no  object  then  your  love  just  goes  on  eat- 
ing your  heart  away.  But  it's  there." 

"  Oh,  my  God !  "  cried  Hannah  — "  Where  did  you 
learn  all  this  —  you !  Mary !  The  youngest  of  all 
of  us!  Whom  do  you  love  then  if  you  don't  love 
him?  Oh,  it's  horrible!  Is  your  heart  eating  itself 
away  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Then  what?  What  is  it?  I  don't  understand! 
How  could  I  understand?  I  am  an  old  woman  now. 
Somehow  you  seem  to  make  me  know  I'm  an  old 
woman.  What  is  it  ?  What  do  you  love  ? " 

"  I  told  you  I'm  going  to  have  a  child,"  whispered 
Mary — "Isn't  that  something  to  love?  It's  here 
with  us  as  I'm  talking  now.  There  are  three  of  us, 
Hannah,  not  two.  Isn't  that  something  to  love?  " 

For  a  long  moment,  Hannah  gazed  at  her,  then, 
suddenly  clasping  her  hands  about  her  face  she  turned 

161 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

and  with  swift  steps  ran,  almost,  down  the  path  and 
disappeared  into  the  house.  It  was  as  she  watched 
her  going,  that  Mary  had  a  flash  of  knowledge  how 
deep  the  wound  had  gone. 


VI 

NOW    this    much    was    accomplished    in    the 
schedule    of    her    mind.     They    would    all 
know.     She  left  it  to  Hannah  to  tell  them. 
The  next  day  after  this  confession  to  her  sister,  she 
went  to  Yarningdale  Farm,  having  made  all  arrange- 
ments to  stay  there  two  or  three  days  and  complete  her 
plans  for  the  future. 

It  had  been  a  difficult  moment  to  tell  Hannah.  She 
had  not  quite  realized  beforehand  how  difficult  it 
would  be.  Pride  she  had  calculated  would  have 
helped  her  from  the  first;  pride  of  the  very  purposes 
of  life  that  had  passed  her  sisters  by.  But  pride  had 
not  been  so  ready  to  her  thoughts  when  the  actual 
moment  of  contact  had  come.  The  habitual  instincts 
of  convention  had  intervened.  Pride,  when  it  had 
come  to  her  aid,  had  not  been  pride  of  herself.  It  was 
proud  she  was  of  her  sex  when  in  the  abruptness  of 
that  instant  she  had  flung  her  confession  before  Han- 
nah. 

There  would  be  no  question  of  pride;  no  support 
could  it  give  her  when  she  came  to  tell  Mrs.  Peverell. 
To  that  simple  farmer's  wife  it  could  only  seem  that 
here  was  one,  pursued  by  the  error  of  her  ways,  seek- 
ing sanctuary  and  hiding  her  shame  in  the  remotest 
corner  she  could  find. 

163 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Giving  no  reason  to  Jane  or  Fanny,  but  only  to 
Hannah  for  her  sudden  departure,  she  went  the  next 
day  into  Warwickshire. 

"You  can  tell  them  when  I'm  away,"  she  said  to 

Hannah.     "It's  no   good  thinking  you  needn't   tell 

them.     Hiding  it  won't  conceal.     They  must  know." 

With  an  impulsive  gesture  she  laid  her  hands  on 

Hannah's  shoulders  and  looked  into  those  eyes  that 

indeed,  as  she  had  said,  even  in  those  few  short  hours 

of  knowledge,  had  grown  conscious  that  she  was  old. 

"  I  don't  know  how  much  you  hate  me  for  bringing 

all  this  trouble  on  you.     It  shan't  be  much  trouble, 

I  promise  you.     No  one  need  know  why  I've  gone 

away.     But  I  sort  of  feel  sure  of  this,  Hannah,  you 

don't  hate  me  for  the  thing  itself  —  not  so  much  as 

you  might  have  thought  you  would  have  done." 

Hannah  tried  to  meet  the  gaze  of  Mary's  eyes. 
Her  own  held  fast  a  moment,  then  faltered  and  fell. 
Something  in  Mary's  glance  seemed  to  have  tracked 
down  something  in  her.  The  one  with  her  child 
had  glimpsed  into  the  heart  of  her  who  had  none. 
It  had  been  like  a  shaft  of  light,  slanting  into  a  cellar, 
some  chamber  underground  that  for  long  had  been 
locked,  the  bolts  on  whose  door  were  rusty  and  past 
all  use,  the  floor  of  which  was  no  longer  paved  for 
feet  to  walk  upon. 

For  so  many  years  untenanted  had  that  under- 
ground chamber  been  that,  as  has  been  said,  Hannah 
had  forgotten  its  existence.  Content  had  come  to  her 
with  the  house  of  life  she  lived  in  and  now  by  the 

164 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

illumination  of  this  ray  of  light,  shooting  through 
cellar  windows,  lighting  up  the  very  foundations  of 
the  structure  of  her  being,  she  had  been  made  aware, 
when  it  was  all  too  late,  of  the  solid  and  real  sub- 
stance upon  which  Nature  had  built  the  wasted  thing 
she  had  become. 

"Don't!"  she  muttered.  "  Don't  —  don't !"  and 
almost  in  shame  it  might  have  been  she  hung  her  head 
as  though  it  were  Mary  who  might  accuse,  as  though 
Mary  it  were  who  rose  in  judgment  above  her  then. 

Mr.  Peverell  in  a  spring  cart  from  the  nearest  sta- 
tion brought  Mary  to  Yarningdale  Farm.  She  had 
no  need  to  touch  Henley-in-Arden.  There  was  no 
likelihood  that  whilst  there  she  would  ever  come  across 
her  friends.  They  had  walked  many  miles  that  day. 
It  was  the  highest  improbability  they  would  ever 
walk  that  way  again;  and  certainly  not  to  visit  the 
farm. 

"  It  happen  be  a  quiet  day,"  he  said  as  he  gathered 
up  the  reins,  "  or  I  couldn't  have  come  for  'ee  with 
the  spring  cart.  No  —  I  couldn't  have  come  for  'ee 
with  the  spring  cart  if  it  didn't  happen  to  be  a  quiet 
day.  I  got  the  machine  ready  last  night  and  we  be 
cuttin'  hay  to-morrow." 

Cutting  hay! 

"  May  I  help  ?  "  she  asked  with  an  impulsive  eager- 
ness. He  looked  down  at  her  on  the  lower  seat  be- 
side him  and  his  eyes  were  twinkling  with  a  kindly 
amusement. 

165 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  'Ee  can  help,"  said  he,  "  but  hay-makin'  ain't 
'helpin' —  it's  work.  When  they  cut  the  grass  over 
at  Stapeley — Lord  Orford's  place  there  over  — 
there's  some  of  the  ladies  puts  on  them  dimity-like 
sunbonnets  and  come  and  help.  But  then  you  see 
there's  plenty  to  do  the  work."  His  eyes  twinkled 
again.  "  We've  only  got  hundred  and  thirteen  acres 
and  there's  me  and  the  carter  and  a  boy.  My  missis 
comes  out.  So  does  the  carter's  wife.  But  'tain't 
helpin'.  Tis  work.  We  can't  'ford  amusements 
like  helpin'  each  other.  We  have  to  work  —  if  you 
understand  what  I  mean." 

"  But  I  mean  that  too,"  she  said  quickly.  "  I 
meant  to  work.  Of  course  I  don't  know  anything 
about  it ;  but  couldn't  I  really  do  something  ?  " 

"  We'll  be  beginning  half-past  five  to-morrow  morn- 
ing," he  said  and  she  felt  he  was  chuckling  in  his 
heart.  She  felt  that  all  who  did  not  know  the  land 
as  he  knew  it  were  mere  children  to  him. 

"  Can't  I  get  up  at  half-past  five?  "  she  asked. 

"Can  'ee?" 

"Of  course  I  can.  I  want  to  work.  Do  you  know 
that's  one  of  the  things  I  want  to  come  here  for. 
When  I  come  and  stay  —  that's  what  I've  come  to  ar- 
range with  Mrs.  Peverell  —  when  I  come  and  stay,  I 
want  to  work.  I  can  do  what  I'm  told." 

"  There's  few  as  can,"  said  he.  "  Them  things 
we're  told  to  do,  get  mighty  slow  in  doin'.  Could  'ee 
drive  a  horse  rake?" 

"  I  can  drive  a  horse." 

166 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

He  whipped  up  the  old  mare  and  said  no  more  until 
she  asked  him  why  they  had  not  cut  the  grass  that 
day.  It  was  so  fine,  she  said,  and  fine  weather  she 
thought  was  what  they  wanted  first  of  all. 

"  There  be  plenty  of  fine  days  when  the  grass  is 
green,"  said  he.  "  'Twill  be  fine  now  a  few  days, 
time  we'd  be  gettin'  it  in.  We'd  a  shower  yesterday 
—  a  nice  drop  of  rain  it  was.  Sun  to-day  and  they 
trefolium'll  have  their  seed  just  right  and  nigh  to 
droppin'.  'Ee  want  the  seed  ripe  in  the  stack. 
'Tain't  no  good  leavin'  it  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon." 

She  let  him  talk  on.  She  did  not  know  what  tre- 
folium  was.  He  needed  a  listener,  no  more.  Ques- 
tions would  not  have  pleased  his  ear.  All  the  way 
back  he  talked  about  the  land  and  as  to  one  who  un- 
derstood every  word  he  said.  There  was  his  heart 
and  there  he  spoke  it  as  a  lover  might  who  needed  no 
more  than  a  listener  to  hear  the  charms  of  his  mis- 
tress. The  mere  sound  of  his  voice,  the  ring  it  had  of 
vital  energy,  these  were  enough  to  make  that  talking 
a  thrilling  song  to  her.  It  echoed  to  something  in 
her.  She  did  not  know  what  it  was.  Scarce  a  word 
of  it  did  she  understand;  yet  not  a  word  of  it  would 
she  have  lost. 

This  something  that  there  was  in  him,  was  some- 
thing also  in  her.  Indistinctly  she  knew  it  was  that 
which  she  must  feed  and  stimulate  to  make  her  child. 
As  little  would  he  have  understood  that  as  she  had 
comprehension  of  his  talk  of  crops  and  soil.  Their 
language  might  not  be  the  same,  but  the  same  urging 

167 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

force  was  there  to  give  them  speech  and  thought. 
Just  as  he  spoke  of  the  land  though  never  of  himself 
or  his  part  with  it,  so  she  thought  of  her  child,  a 
thing  that  needed  soil  to  grow  in.  No  haphazard 
chance  of  circumstance  did  she  feel  it  to  be.  Tilling 
must  she  do  and  cleansing  of  the  earth,  before  her 
harvest  could  be  reaped.  Her  night  would  come, 
that  night  before,  that  night  when  all  was  ready,  that 
night  after  rain  and  sun  when  the  seed  was  ripe  and 
must  be  gathered  in  the  stack  and  none  be  wasted 
on  the  wagon  floor. 

"  'Ee  understand  what  I'm  savin'/'  she  suddenly 
heard  him  interpose  between  the  level  of  her  thoughts. 

"  Yes,  yes  —  I  understand,"  said  she.  "  And  you 
don't  know  how  interesting  it  is." 

He  turned  the  mare  into  the  farm  gate  and  tossed  the 
reins  on  to  her  back. 

"  She's  a  knowsome  girl,"  he  said  that  night  as  he 
lay  beside  his  wife.  "  She's  a  knowsome  girl. 
'Twon't  rain  to-morrow.  There  was  no  rain  in  they 
clouds." 


VII 

THE  next  evening  it  was,  after  the  first  day  in 
the  hayfield  and  while  Mr.  Peverell  in  the  big 
barn  was  sharpening  the  knives  of  the  mowing 
machine,  that  Mary  set  herself  to  the  task  of  telling  his 
wife  why  she  wanted  to  come  to  the  farm. 

Hard  as  she  knew  it  would  be,  so  much  the  harder  it 
became  when  alone  she  found  herself  watching  that 
sallow  face  with  its  sunken  and  lusterless  eyes,  the 
thin,  unforgiving  line  of  lip,  the  chin  set  square,  obed- 
iently to  turn  the  other  cheek  to  the  smiting  hand  of 
Fate. 

Mrs.  Peverell  was  knitting. 

"•A  woolly  vest,"  said  she  — "  for  the  old  man,  come 
next  winter.  Time  they  leaves  be  off  the  apple  trees, 
the  wind  ain't  long  afindin'  we'd  be  here  top  of  the 
hill." 

For  a  while  Mary  sat  in  silence  counting  her  stitches 
—  two  purl,  two  plain,  two  purl,  two  plain.  The 
needles  clicked.  The  knotted  knuckles  turned  and 
twisted,  catching  the  light  with  rhythmic  precision. 
And  all  the  time  she  kept  saying  to  herself  — "  Soon 
he'll  come  back  from  the  barn  and  I  shan't  have  said 
it.  Soon  he'll  come  back." 

"  Did  you  make  all  your  children's  things  for 
169 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

them  ?  "  she  asked  with  sudden  inspiration,  striking  the 
note  to  key  her  thoughts  when  she  could  speak  them. 

The  needles  clicked  on.  The  knotted  knuckles 
twisted  and  turned  as  though  she  had  never  heard. 
The  head  was  bent,  the  eyes  fastened  upon  her  stitches. 

Thinking  she  had  not  heard,  Mary  was  about  to  re- 
peat her  question  when  suddenly  she  looked.  Stone 
her  eyes  were,  even  and  gray.  Through  years,  each 
one  of  which  was  notched  upon  her  memory,  she  looked 
at  Mary  across  the  dim  light  of  their  parlor  kitchen. 

"  I  had  no  children,"  she  said  hardly ;  "  all  the 
stitches  I've  ever  gathered  was  for  my  man." 

Her  gaze  upon  Mary  continued  for  a  long  silence 
then,  as  though  her  needles  had  called  them,  her  eyes 
withdrew  to  her  knitting.  Saying  no  more,  she  con- 
tinued her  occupation. 

To  Mary  could  she  have  said  less?  There  was  the 
gap  filled  in  between  that  winsome  creature  whose  por- 
trait hung  upon  the  wall  in  the  other  room  and  this 
woman,  sour  of  countenance,  whose  blood  had  turned 
to  vinegar  in  her  heart. 

Many  another  woman  would  have  been  still  more 
afraid,  possessed  of  such  knowledge  as  that.  With  a 
heart  that  swelled  in  her  to  pity,  Mary  found  her  fear 
had  gone. 

Somewhere  in  that  forbidding  exterior,  she  knew 
she  could  find  the  response  of  heart  she  needed.  Even 
Nature,  with  her  cruelest  whip,  could  not  drive  out  the 
deeper  kindliness  of  the  soul.  It  was  only  the  body 
she  could  dry  up  and  wither,  with  the  persisting  fer- 

170 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

ment  of  discontent ;  only  the  external  woman  she  could 
embitter  with  her  disregard. 

For  here  was  one  whom  circumstance  had  offered 
and  Nature  had  flung  aside.  Great  as  the  tragedy  of 
her  sisters'  lives  might  be,  Mary  knew  how  much 
greater  a  tragedy  was  this.  Here  there  was  no  remedy, 
no  fear  of  convention  to  make  excuse,  no  want  of  cour- 
age to  justify.  Like  a  leper  she  was  outcast  amongst 
women.  The  knowledge  of  it  was  all  in  her  face. 
And  such  tragedy  as  this,  though  it  might  wither  the 
body  and  turn  sour  the  heart,  could  only  make  the  soul 
great  that  suffered  it. 

Mary's  fear  was  gone.  At  sight  of  the  unforgiving 
line  of  lip  and  square  set  chin  to  meet  adversity,  she 
knew  a  great  soul  was  hidden  behind  that  sallow  mask. 

The  long  silence  that  had  followed  Mrs.  Peverell's 
admission  added  a  fullness  of  meaning  to  Mary's 
words. 

"  It'd  sound  foolish  and  empty  if  I  said  I  was 
sorry,"  she  said  quietly,  "  but  I  know  what  you  must 
feel." 

The  lusterless  eyes  shot  up  quickly  from  their  hol- 
lows. Almost  a  light  was  kindling  in  them  now. 

"  'Ee  bain't  a  married  girl,"  she  said,  "  Miss  Throg- 
morton  or  what  'ee  call  it,  that's  how  I  wrote  my  letter 
to  'ee." 

"  Yes." 

"  How  could  'ee  know  things  I'd  feel? 

"  I  do." 

"How  old  are  'ee?" 

171 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  Thirty  next  September." 

"  Why  haven't  'ee  married  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  been  asked.     Look  at  me." 

"  I  am." 

"  But  look  at  me  well." 

Mrs.  Peverell  stared  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  have  three  sisters  older  than  me,"  Mary  went  on. 
"  Four  girls  —  four  women.  We're  none  of  us  mar- 
ried. None  of  us  was  ever  as  pretty  or  sweet  as  you 
were  when  that  photograph  was  taken  of  you  in  the 
other  room." 

The  silence  that  fell  between  them  then  as  Mrs. 
Peverell  gazed  at  her  was  more  significant  than  words. 
For  all  they  said,  once  understanding,  they  did  not  need 
words.  Indications  of  speech  sufficed. 

"Did  any  of  'ee  want  to  be  married?"  asked  the 
farmer's  wife.  "  Did  you?  " 

"Did  you?"  replied  Mary. 

"  I  wanted  a  good  man,"  said  she,  "  and  I  got  him." 

"  Yes,  but  looking  back  on  it  now  —  all  these  years 
—  back  to  that  photograph  in  there,  was  that  what  you 
wanted?  " 

All  this  time  Mrs.  Peverell  had  been  holding  her 
needles  as  though  at  any  moment  the  conversation 
might  command  her  full  attention  no  longer  and  she 
would  return  to  her  knitting.  Definitely,  at  last  she 
laid  it  in  her  lap  and,  leaning  forward,  she  set  her 
eyes,  now  lit  indeed,  upon  Mary's  face  before  her. 

"  'Ee  know  so  much,"  said  she  slowly.  "  How  did 
'ee  learn?  What  is  it  'ee  have  to  tell  me?  " 

172 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Without  fear,  Mary  met  her  gaze.  Long  it  was  and 
keen  but  she  met  it  full,  nor  turned,  nor  dropped  her 
eyes.  Brimmed  and  overflowing  that  silence  was  as 
they  sat  there.  Words  would  have  been  empty  sounds 
had  they  been  spoken.  Then,  but  not  until  it  had  ex- 
pressed all  their  thoughts,  Mrs.  Peverell's  lips  parted. 

"  It's  sin,"  she  said. 

"Is  it?"  replied  Mary,  and,  so  still  her  voice  was 
that  it  made  no  vibrations  to  disturb  the  deeper  mean- 
ing she  implied.  In  their  following  silence,  that  deeper 
meaning  filtered  slowly  but  inevitably  through  the 
strata  of  Mrs.  Peverell's  mind,  till  drop  by  drop  it  fell 
into  the  core  of  her  being.  In  the  far  hidden  soul  of 
her,  she  knew  it  was  no  sin.  She  knew  moreover  that 
Mary  had  full  realization  of  her  knowledge.  Too  far 
the  silence  had  gone  for  her  to  deny  it  now.  Whatever 
were  the  years  between  them,  in  those  moments  they 
were  just  women  between  whom  no  screen  was  set  to 
hide  their  shame.  They  had  no  shame.  All  that  they 
thought  and  had  no  words  for  was  pure  as  the  clearest 
water  in  the  deepest  well. 

It  was  at  this  moment  as  they  sat  there,  still,  without 
speech,  that  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Peverell  entered. 
Swiftly  his  wife  turned. 

"  'Ee'll  not  be  wanted  here  awhile,"  she  said  sharply. 
"  Go  and  sit  in  the  parlor,  or  back  to  the  barn,  or  get 
to  bed  maybe.  The  hay'll  make  without  talking." 

Obediently,  like  a  child,  he  went  out  at  once  and 
closed  the  door.  It  was  not  things  they  talked  of  that 
he  might  not  hear.  Not  even  was  it  things  they  talked 

173 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

of  that  he  might  not  understand.  Here  it  was  that  no 
man  had  place  or  meaning ;  in  that  region  their  minds 
were  wandering  in,  no  laws  existed  but  those  of  Na- 
ture. They  walked  in  a  world  where  women  are  alone. 

The  opening  of  that  door  as  he  came  in,  the  closing 
of  it  as  obediently  he  went  out,  seemed  to  make  definite 
the  thoughts  they  had.  At  the  sound  of  his  footsteps 
departing,  Mrs.  Peverell  turned  to  Mary. 

"  Say  all  'ee've  got  to  say,"  she  muttered.  "  I'm 
listenin'." 

And  as  definitely  Mary  replied  — 

"  I'm  going  to  have  a  baby.  Seven  months  from 
now.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I'm  hiding  here.  I 
could  take  refuge  anywhere.  I'm  not  ashamed.  But 
there  are  seven  months.  They  won't  be  long  to  me. 
Indeed  they'll  be  all  too  short.  Children  aren't  just 
born.  They're  made.  Thousands  are  born,  I  know. 
I  don't  want  just  to  bear  mine.  When  I  came  here 
that  day,  two  years  ago,  I  felt  something  about  this 
place.  You'll  think  nothing  of  this.  You  live  here. 
It's  so  much  part  of  your  life  that  you  don't  know  what 
it  means.  But  you're  close  to  the  earth  —  you're  all 
one  with  growing  things.  You  touch  Nature  at  every 
turn.  Oh  —  do  you  understand  what  I'm  saying?  " 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Peverell,  "  but  I'm 
listenin'  and  I  beant  too  old  to  feel." 

Mary  sped  on  with  the  words  that  now  were  rushing 
in  her  thoughts. 

"  Well  —  all  that  means  such  a  lot  to  me.  That's 
how  I  want  to  make  my  child,  as  you  make  your  lives 

174 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

here.  No  cheating.  You  can't  cheat  Nature.  No 
pretence  —  no  shame.  There's  nothing  so  flagrant  or 
unashamed  as  Nature  when  she  brings  forth.  Out 
there  in  the  world,  there  where  I  live,  they'd  do  all  they 
could  to  make  me  ashamed.  At  every  turn  they'd 
shriek  at  me  it  was  a  sin.  The  laws  would  urge  them 
to  it,  just  as  for  that  one  moment  they  urged  you.  It's 
not  a  sin.  It's  not  a  shame.  It's  the  most  wonderful 
thing  in  the  world.  Do  you  think  if  women  had  the 
making  of  the  laws  that  rule  them,  they'd  ever  have 
made  of  it  the  shame  it  is  out  there?  When  I  knew 
that  this  was  going  to  happen  to  me,  I  remembered 
my  impressions  of  this  place  two  years  ago,  and  I 
knew  it  was  here  I  would  make  him,  month  by  month, 
while  he's  leaning  in  me  to  make  him.  Oh  —  I  know 
I  must  be  talking  strangely  to  you;  that  half  of  what 
I  say  sounds  feather-brained  nonsense,  but  —  don't  you 
know  it's  true,  don't  you  feel  it's  true  ?  " 

With  an  impulsive  gesture  when  words  had  failed, 
she  leant  forward  and  caught  the  knotted  knuckles  in 
her  hand. 

Mrs.  Peverell  glanced  up. 

"  In  that  room  there,"  said  she,  pointing  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  parlor  sitting  room,  "  there's  a  girt  Bible 
lies  heavy  on  a  mat.  We  bought  it  marriage  time  to 
write  the  names  of  those  we  had." 

"  I  saw  it,"  said  Mary. 

"  Tis  clean  paper  lies  on  front  of  it,"  she  went  on. 
"  It  shan't  be  clean  for  long.  We'll  write  his  name 
there." 


VIII 

THE  moment  Mary  entered  the  square,  white 
house  on  her  return  to  Bridnorth,   she  was 
aware  that  both  Jane  and  Fanny  knew.     The 
coach  had  set  her  down  outside  the  Royal  George,  but 
no  faces  had  been  at  the  windows  as  she  went  by.     No 
servant  had  been  sent  up  the  road  to  carry  back  her  bag. 
Outwardly  she  smiled.     Her  disgrace  had  begun. 

This  was  the  end  of  Bridnorth  life  for  her.  Here 
was  to  begin  a  new  phase  wherein  she  had  none  but 
herself  to  lean  upon;  wherein  the  whole  world  was 
against  her  and  in  that  substance  of  stone  already  hard- 
ening in  her  spirit,  she  must  stand  alone. 

The  whole  house  seemed  empty  as  she  came  in.  She 
went  to  her  room  without  meeting  any  one.  They 
could  not  long  have  finished  tea.  She  looked  into  the 
drawing-room  as  she  went  by.  No  tea  had  been  left 
out  for  her. 

Her  bed  was  prepared  to  sleep  in.  There  were  clean 
towels  and  a  clean  mat  on  the  dressing  table;  but  the 
sign  by  which  they  always  welcomed  each  other's  re- 
turn after  absence  was  missing.  There  were  no  flow- 
ers in  the  room.  The  garden  was  full-yielding. 
Flowers  in  profusion  were  withering  in  the  beds. 
There  was  no  bowl  of  them  in  her  room. 

176 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

It  was  here,  indeed  it  was  everywhere,  she  felt  the 
presence  of  Jane.  It  was  not  Hannah,  now  that  she 
had  time  to  think  it  out,  it  was  not  Fanny,  but  Jane 
she  had  come  back  to  meet.  Jane  with  the  unyielding 
spirit  of  those  laws  Mary  had  found  consciousness  of, 
against  which  she  set  herself  in  no  less  unyielding  an- 
tagonism. 

It  was  bitterness,  as  it  is  with  so  many,  that  had 
ranged  Jane  in  battle  against  her  sex.  She  made  no 
allowances.  Almost  with  a  fierce  joy,  she  kept  to  the 
very  letter  of  the  law.  Hers  was  the  justice  of  revenge 
and  there  are  no  circumstances  can  mitigate  one  woman 
in  another's  eyes  when  she  transgresses  as  Mary  had 
done. 

In  her  room  she  waited,  unpacking  her  things,  then 
sitting  and  looking  out  into  the  garden  until  the  bell 
rang  for  their  evening  meal.  With  sensations  divided 
between  a  high  temper  of  courage  and  a  feeling  of 
being  outcast  in  that  house  she  had  known  so  long  as 
home,  she  went  down  to  the  dining-room. 

They  were  already  seated.  Jane  was  carving  the 
joint.  She  did  not  look  up.  Fanny  raised  her  eyes 
in  silence.  The  wish  to  give  her  welcome  was  over- 
awed by  wonder  of  curiosity.  It  was  Hannah  who 
said  — 

"  You  told  us  in  your  letter  you  were  coming  back 
by  this  afternoon's  coach,  but  we  weren't  quite  sure." 

Caught  in  an  instant's  impulse,  with  an  effort  Mary 
controlled  herself  from  saying  — 

"  Didn't  you  do  what  Jane  told  you  to  do?  " 
177 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

She  held  her  tongue  and  sat  down. 

It  was  a  strange  and  oppressive  silence  that  fell  upon 
them  during  that  meal.  Oppressive  it  was,  but  elec- 
trical as  well.  Vivid,  vital  forces  were  at  work  in  all 
their  minds.  Storms  were  gathering  they  all  knew 
must  burst  at  last.  Something  there  was  that  had 
power  to  gather  those  forces  to  their  utmost  before 
they  broke  and  were  dispersed  in  speech. 

There  they  were,  four  unmarried  women,  seated 
about  that  table  with  the  two  portraits  looking  down 
upon  them  in  their  silence.  So  they  had  occupied  their 
allotted  positions  year  by  year  —  year  by  year.  Often 
there  had  been  quarrelings  between  them.  Often  they 
had  not  been  on  speaking  terms.  Winds  of  disagree- 
ment had  fretted  the  peaceful  surface  of  that  house 
again  and  again. 

But  this  which  was  upon  them  now  was  unlike  any 
silence  that  had  fallen  upon  them  before.  Then  they 
had  kept  silent  because  they  would.  It  was  now  they 
kept  silent  because  they  must.  The  pervading  presence 
of  something  about  them  was  tying  their  tongues  from 
speech.  Without  the  courage  to  tell  themselves  what 
it  was,  they  knew. 

There  was  another  in  their  midst.  Those  four 
women,  they  were  not  alone.  It  was  not  as  it  had  been 
for  so  many  years.  They  knew  it  could  never  be  so 
again.  Something  had  happened  to  one  of  them  that 
set  her  apart.  Each  in  the  variety  of  her  imagination 
was  picturing  what  that  something  was.  Hannah  it 
frightened.  Jane  it  enraged.  Fanny  it  stirred  so 

178 


deeply  that  many  times  through  the  terribleness  of  that 
meal,  she  thought  she  must  faint. 

One  and  all  they  might  have  spoken,  had  it  been  no 
more  than  this.  But  that  presence  in  the  midst  of 
them  kept  their  tongues  to  stillness.  Life  was  spring- 
ing up,  where  for  so  long  there  had  been  all  the  silence 
of  a  barren  field.  They  could  hear  it  in  their  hearts. 
Almost  it  was  a  thunder  rolling  that  awed  and  over- 
whelmed. 

The  sound  of  their  knives  and  forks,  even  the  swal- 
lowing of  their  food  hammered  across  that  distant 
thunder  to  their  conscious  ears.  Each  one  knew  it  was 
becoming  more  and  more  unendurable.  Each  one 
knew  the  moment  must  come  when  she  could  bear  it 
no  longer.  It  was  Mary  who  reached  that  moment 
first. 

Laying  down  her  knife  and  fork  and  pushing  away 
her  plate  unfinished,  she  flung  back  her  head  with  eyes 
that  gathered  their  eyes  to  hers. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?"  she  cried  to  them. 
"  Why  can't  you  say  what  you're  all  wanting  to  say  — - 
what's  got  to  be  said  sooner  or  later?  I  know  you 
know  —  all  of  you.  Hannah's  told  you.  And  you've 
thought  it  all  out,  as  much  as  it  can  be  thought  out.  I 
don't  want  any  favors  from  you.  This  has  been  my 
home.  I'm  quite  ready  for  it  to  be  my  home  no 
longer.  In  any  case  I'm  going  away.  There's  no 
question,  if  you're  afraid  of  that,  of  my  appealing  to 
you  for  pity  or  generosity.  It's  only  a  question  of  the 
spirit  in  which  I  go  and  the  spirit  of  what  I  leave  be- 

179 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

hind.  That's  all.  And  why  can't  you  say  it?  Why 
can't  you  tell  me  what  it  is  ?  You,  Jane !  Why  don't 
you  speak?  You're  the  one  who  has  anything  to  say. 
You  told  them  not  to  meet  the  coach.  You  told  them 
not  to  put  any  flowers  in  my  room.  If  it's  something 
really  to  fight  about,  let's  fight  now.  I'm  not  going 
to  fight  again.  I'm  going  away  where  my  child  will 
be  born  with  all  the  best  that  I  can  give  it,  but  I'll  hear 
what  you've  got  to  say  now,  only  for  God's  sake  say 
it!"  ' 


IX 

NONE  of  them  knew  their  Mary  like  this.     Un- 
til that  moment  scarcely  in  such  fashion  had 
she  known  herself.     N'ew  instincts  had  risen 
in  her  blood.     Already  the  creative  force  was  striking 
a  dominant  note  in  her  voice,  setting  to  fire  a  light  in 
her  eyes. 

They  felt  that  evening  she  had  gained  power  that 
would  never  be  theirs.  Hannah  fell  obedient  to  it  as 
one  who  humbles  herself  before  mighty  things;  Fanny 
fell  to  fear,  awed  by  this  note  of  battle  that  rang  like  a 
challenge  in  her  voice. 

Jane  alone  it  was  who  stood  out  away  from  them 
and,  from  amidst  the  ranks  of  that  army  of  women 
who  acknowledge  the  oath  of  convention,  offering  both 
heart  and  blood  in  its  service,  accepted  the  call  to 
combat. 

"  You  talk,"  she  said,  with  her  voice  rising  swiftly  to 
the  pitch  of  conflict ;  "  you  talk  as  though  there  were 
two  ways  of  looking  at  what  you've  done.  You  talk 
as  though  there  were  something  fine  and  splendid  in  it, 
but  were  not  quite  sure  whether  we  were  fine  or  splen- 
did enough  to  see  it.  I  never  heard  anything  so  arro- 
gant in  all  my  life.  You  seem  to  think  it's  a  concession 
on  your  part  to  say  you're  going  away.  Of  course 

181 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

you're  going  away.  We've  lived  decently  and  cleanly 
in  this  place  all  these  years.  They've  had  no  reason 
to  be  ashamed  of  us,"  her  eyes  flashed  to  the  portraits 
and  back  to  Mary,  "  not  till  now.  Do  you  think  we're 
going  to  flaunt  our  shame  in  their  faces !  " 

Catching  a  look  of  pain  in  Hannah's  eyes,  as  though 
that  last  blow  had  been  too  searching  and  too  keen, 
she  struck  it  home  again. 

"  It  is  shame !  "  she  said.  "  I'm  not  so  different 
from  all  of  you.  I  feel  ashamed  and  so  do  they. 
What  else  can  we  possibly  feel  —  a  married  man  —  a 
man  you  don't  even  love.  It's  filthy!  And  if  you 
want  to  find  another  word  for  it  than  that,  it's  because 
you've  even  come  to  be  ashamed  of  the  truth.  There's 
something  in  decency ;  there's  something  in  modesty  and 
cleanliness.  They  taught  us  it.  The  whole  of  their 
lives  they  taught  us  that.  They  brought  us  up  to  be 
proud  of  the  class  we  belong  to,  not  to  behave  like  serv- 
ant girls  snatching  kisses  that  don't  belong  to  us  with 
any  man  who  comes  along  and  likes  to  make  a  fool  of 
us." 

Fanny,  who  up  to  that  moment  had  been  gazing  at 
her  sister,  caught  in  a  wonder  at  this  flow  of  speech, 
now  of  a  sudden  dropped  her  eyes,  twining  and  untwin- 
ing the  fingers  in  her  lap.  How  could  Mary  answer 
that  ?  Cruel  as  it  was,  it  had  the  sting  of  truth.  She 
dared  not  look  at  her  and  could  only  wait  in  trembling 
for  her  reply. 

She  might  have  gained  courage  had  she  looked. 
Those  blows  had  not  beaten  Mary  to  her  knees.  With 

182 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

her  head  thrown  back,  she  waited  for  the  last  word,  as 
though,  now  they  had  come  to  it,  there  were  rules  to  be 
observed  and  pride  in  her  own  strength  put  aside  all 
need  to  ignore  them. 

"  Have  you  anything  more  to  say?  "  she  asked  with  a 
clear  voice. 

"  Do  you  want  any  more  than  that  ?  "  retorted  Jane. 

"  I  don't  mind  how  much  more  there  is,"  replied 
Mary  quietly,  "  we're  saying  all  we  feel.  We  aren't 
mincing  things.  I'm  going  to  say  what  I  feel.  I'm 
going  to  hit  and  hurt  as  hard  as  you,  so  go  on  if  you 
want  to.  This  isn't  a  squabble.  I  don't  want  to 
bicker  or  cavil  or  interrupt.  We're  not  just  cats  fight- 
ing now,  we're  women  and  we'll  try  and  talk  fair.  Say 
anything  more  you've  got  to  say." 

"  Well,  if  that's  not  enough  for  you,"  continued  Jane, 
"if  it  is  not  enough  to  allude  to  what  I  saw  with  my 
own  eyes,  or  to  tell  you  there  are  servant  girls  who 
could  behave  better  than  that,  then  I'll  talk  of  what, 
thank  God,  I  didn't  see  and  I'll  tell  you  it's  worse  than 
shame  what  you  have  done  and  not  even  the  excuse  of 
being  betrayed  by  love  that  you  have  to  offer  for  it. 
I'll  say  it,  Mary,  and  I  don't  care  now  because  you've 
asked  for  it.  You  must  be  a  bad  woman  in  your 
heart,  there  must  be  something  vile  about  you  that 
makes  you  not  fit  to  touch  us  or  be  in  the  same  house 
with  us.  You've  asked  for  that  and  you've  got  it. 
You've  wanted  every  word  there  is  to  say.  I  should 
have  left  that  unspoken  if  you  hadn't  asked  for  it. 
But  that's  what  I  feel.  If  you  were  a  woman  off  the 

183 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

streets  in  London  and  sitting  there  at  our  table,  I 
couldn't  feel  more  sick  or  ashamed  at  the  sight  of  you." 
"  Jane !  "  cried  Hannah.     "  Oh,  don't  say  anything 
so  horrible  or  terrible  as  that !  " 

"What's  terrible  about  it?  What's  horrible  about 
it?  "  asked  Mary.  "  It  isn't  true.  Jane  knows  it  isn't 
true.  When  a  woman's  fighting  for  the  conventions 
Jane's  fighting  for,  she  doesn't  use  the  truth  —  she's 
incapable  of  using  it." 

"What  is  the  truth  then?"  exclaimed  Jane.  "If 
you've  satisfied  yourself  you  know,  if  you've  invented 
anything  truer  than  what  I've  said  to  make  an  excuse 
for  yourself,  let's  hear  what  it  is." 

"  Yes,  you  shall  hear  it,"  said  Mary,  and  a  deep 
breath  she  drew  to  steady  the  torrent  of  words  that  was 
surging  in  her  mind.  "  First  of  all  it's  not  true  that  I 
didn't  love.  I  did.  She's  perverted  the  truth  there. 
I  did  love.  I'm  not  going  to  tear  my  heart  open  and 
show  you  how  much.  I  don't  love  any  longer.  That's 
what  Jane  has  made  use  of  —  the  best  she  could.  But 
what  I  feel  now  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  What  I  feel 
now  is  the  result  of  circumstances  it  won't  help  any 
way  to  explain.  What  happened  that  makes  the  vile- 
ness  she  talks  about,  happened  when  I  was  in  love,  as 
deeply  in  love  as  any  woman  can  be,  and  as  I  never 
expect  to  be  again.  But  it's  not  because  of  love  that 
I'm  going  to  defend  myself.  It's  not  because  of  love 
that  I  show  this  arrogance,  as  you  call  it.  That's  not 
the  truth  I've  found  or  invented  for  myself.  Love's 
only  half  the  truth  when  you  come  to  value  and  add  up 

184 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

the  things  that  count  in  a  woman's  life.  Of  all  the 
married  people  we  know,  how  many  women  who  have 
found  completion  and  justification  for  their  existence 
really  love  their  husbands  ?  Love !  Oh,  I  don't  know ! 
Love's  an  ecstasy  that  gives  you  a  divine  impetus  to- 
wards the  great  purposes  of  life.  I  don't  want  to  talk 
as  though  I'd  been  reading  things  out  of  a  book.  That 
almost  sounds  like  it.  But  you  can't  imagine  I  haven't 
been  thinking.  These  two  months,  these  last  six 
months,  ever  since  something  that  happened  last  Christ- 
mas time,  I  have.  And  thinking's  like  reading,  I  sup- 
pose. It's  reading  your  own  thoughts." 

A  smile  of  security  twitched  at  Jane's  lips. 

"Well,  is  this  the  wonderful  truth?"  she  asked. 
"  Are  we  to  sit  and  listen  to  you,  the  youngest  of  us, 
telling  us  that  love's  an  ecstasy  ?  Because  if  you're  go- 
ing to  give  us  a  lecture  about  love,  perhaps  you'd  like 
a  glass  of  water  beside  you." 

"  No,  that's  not  the  wonderful  truth,"  she  replied 
quietly.  She  felt  Jane  could  not  sting  her  to  anger  and 
somehow  she  smiled.  "  The  truth  is  this,  which  they 
up  there  had  never  learnt  and  no  one  seems  to  know. 
Life's  not  for  wasting,  but  what  have  been  our  lives 
here,  we  four  girls  — girls!  Women  now!  What 
has  it  been?  Waste  —  waste  —  nothing  but  waste. 
Why  has  Hannah's  hair  gone  gray?  Why  are  you, 
Jane,  bitter  and  sour  and  dry  in  your  heart?  Why's 
Fanny  drawn  and  tired  and  thin  and  spare  ?  Why  do 
I  look  older  than  I  am?  Because  we're  waste  —  be- 
cause Life's  discarded  us  and  thrown  us  on  one  side, 

185 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

because  for  a  long  time  now  there's  been  nothing  in  the 
world  for  us  to  do  but  sit  in  this  room  with  those  por- 
traits looking  down  on  our  heads  and  just  wait  till  we 
filter  out  like  streams  that  have  no  flood  of  purpose  to 
carry  them  to  the  sea.  Our  lives  have  only  been  a 
ditch,  for  water  to  stagnate  in.  We  find  nothing.  We 
can't  even  find  ourselves.  Fanny  there,  grows  thinner 
every  year.  And  who's  to  blame  for  it?  " 

Her  eyes  shot  up  to  the  portraits  on  the  wall  and 
half  furtively  all  their  eyes  followed  hers. 

"  They're  to  blame,  but  not  first  of  all  they  aren't. 
What  makes  it  possible  that  Jane  can  speak  as  she  does, 
talking  about  what  has  happened  to  me  as  the  vilest  of 
all  vile  things?     Men  have  made  it  possible,  because 
men  have  needed  children  for  one  reason  and  one  rea- 
son only.     Possession,  inheritance  and  all  the  traditions 
of  family  and  estate.     These  are  the  things  men  have 
wanted  children  for  and  so  they  made  the  social  laws 
to  meet  their  needs.     But  there  are  more  things  in  the 
world  to  inherit  than  a  pile  of  bricks  and  a  handful  of 
acres.     Do  you  think  I  want  my  child  to  have  no  more 
inheritance  than  that?     I  tell  you  almost  I'm  glad  he 
has  no  father!     I'm  glad  he  won't  possess.     There  are 
things  more  wonderful  than  bricks  and  acres  that  are 
going  to  be  his  if  I  have  the  power  to  show  them  to  him. 
There  are  things  in  the  world  more  wonderful  than 
those  which  you  can  just  call  your  own.     And  it's  those 
laws  of  possession  and  inheritance  we  have  to  thank  for 
the  idleness  our  lives  have  been  set  in.     Jane  thinks 
herself  a  true  woman  just  because  she's  clung  to  mod- 

186 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

esty  and  chastity  and  a  fierce  reserve,  but  those  things 
are  of  true  value  only  when  they're  needed,  and  what 
man  has  needed  them  of  us  ?  Who  cares  at  all  whether 
we've  been  chaste  and  pure?  None  but  ourselves! 
And  what's  made  us  care  but  these  false  values  that 
make  Jane's  shame  of  me?  " 

With  flashing  eyes  she  turned  to  Jane. 

"  You've  asked  for  the  truth,"  she  cried  now. 
"  Well,  you  shall  have  it  as  you  thought  you  gave  it  to 
me.  You're  not  really  ashamed  of  me.  You're  envi- 
ous, jealous,  and  you're  stung  with  spite.  Calling  me 
a  servant  girl  or  a  woman  of  the  streets  only  feeds  your 
spite,  it  doesn't  satisfy  your  heart.  You'd  give  all  you 
know  to  have  what  I  have,  but  having  allowed  yourself 
to  be  a  slave  to  the  law  all  you  have  left  is  to  take  a 
pride  in  your  slavery  and  deck  it  out  with  the  pale 
flowers  of  modesty  and  self-respect." 

She  stook  up  suddenly  from  her  chair  and  walked 
to  the  door.  An  instant  there,  she  turned. 

"  As  soon  as  I  can  get  my  things  together,"  she  said, 
"  I'm  going  to  a  place  in  Warwickshire.  If  Hannah 
wants  to  know  my  plans  afterwards  I'll  write  and  tell 
her.  Don't  think  I'm  not  quite  aware  of  being  turned 
out.  That's  quite  as  it  ought  to  be  from  Jane's  point 
of  view.  You'd  dismiss  a  servant  at  once.  But  don't 
think  you've  made  me  ashamed.  I  only  want  you  to 
remember  I  went  as  proud,  prouder  than  you  stayed." 

This  was  the  real  moment  of  Mary  Throgmorton's 
departure  from  the  square,  white  house  in  Bridnorth. 
When  a  few  days  later  she  left  in  the  old  coach  that 

187 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

wound  its  way  over  the  crest  of  the  hill  on  which  so 
often  she  had  watched  it,  it  was  the  mere  anticlimax 
of  her  going  and  to  all  who  saw  that  departure  must 
have  seemed  but  a  simple  happening  in  her  life. 


PHASE  IV 


THE  hay  was  made  and  stacked  when  Mary  re- 
turned  to    Yarningdale    Farm.     They   were 
thatching  the  day  she  arrived,  wherefore  there 
was  none  to  meet  her.     The  old  fly  with  its  faded 
green  and  musty  cushions  brought  her  over  from  the 
station.     Those  were  long  moments  for  contemplation 
as  they  trundled  down  the  country  roads  and  turned 
into  the  lanes  that  led  ultimately  to  the  farm. 

The  train  had  been  too  swift  for  arrested  concentra- 
tion of  thought.  In  the  train  she  had  not  been  alone. 
Here,  as  the  iron-rimmed  wheels  rumbled  beneath  her, 
crunching  the  grit  upon  the  road  with  their  unvarying 
monotonous  note,  she  felt  at  last  she  had  come  into  her 
haven  and  could  turn  without  distraction  into  the 
thoughts  of  her  being. 

Had  ever  that  old  vehicle  carried  such  burden  before? 
With  the  things  Jane  had  said  still  beating  up  and  down 
in  the  cage  of  memory,  she  pictured  some  weeping  serv- 
ant girl  dismissed  her  place,  carrying  her  burden  away 
with  her  in  shame  and  fearfulness  to  find  a  hiding  place 
in  a  staring,  watchful  world. 

Looking  out  upon  the  fields  as  they  passed,  knowing 
them  as  property,  to  whoever  they  might  belong,  again 
she  felt  how  the  right  of  possession  amongst  men  it 

•191 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

was  that  had  made  shame  of  the  right  of  creation 
amongst  women. 

"  Trespassers  will  be  prosecuted,"  she  read  on  a  pass- 
ing board  that  stood  out  conspicuously  in  the  hedge  as 
they  rolled  by. 

There  it  was !  That  was  the  law !  Trespassers  upon 
the  rights  of  man !  The  law  would  descend  with  all  its 
force  upon  their  heads.  But  had  they  not  trespassed 
upon  the  rights  of  women?  Which  was  the  greater? 
To  inherit  and  possess?  To  conceive  and  create? 
Did  not  the  world  reach  the  utmost  marches  of  its 
limitations  in  that  grasping  passion  to  possess?  Was 
that  not  the  root  of  the  evil  of  war,  the  ugliness  of 
crime,  the  stagnation  of  ideals?  To  possess  and  to 
increase  his  possessions,  to  number  Israel  and  to  keep 
all  he  had  got,  were  not  these  the  very  letters  of  the 
law  that  held  the  world  in  slavery ;  were  not  these  the 
chains  in  which,  like  bondwomen,  she  and  her  sisters 
had  walked  wearily  through  the  years  of  their  life  ? 

The  last  lane  they  passed  along  led  through  a  heavily 
timbered  wood  before  they  reached  the  farm.  Some 
children  there  were  gathering  fagots  into  their  aprons. 
She  leant  out  of  the  window  to  watch  them,  her  mind 
set  free  for  that  moment  of  the  encompassing  sense  of 
possession. 

That  was  the  spirit  that  should  rule  the  world.  She 
knew  how  hopeless  it  was  to  think  that  it  could  be  so. 
It  was  the  spur  of  possession  that  urged  men  to  compe- 
tition. The  whip  of  competition  in  turn  it  was  that 
drove  out  idleness  from  the  hearts  of  men.  And  yet, 

192 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

if  women  had  the  forming  of  ideals  in  the  children 
that  were  theirs,  might  they  not  conceive  some  higher 
and  more  altruistic  plane  than  this  ?  Giving,  not  keep- 
ing, might  not  this  be  the  deep  source  of  a  new  civiliza- 
tion other  than  that  which  drove  the  whole  world  with 
the  stinging  lash  of  distrust? 

She  was  going  to  bring  a  child  into  the  world  that 
would  have  nothing  it  could  call  its  own,  not  even  a 
name.  The  fagots  of  life  it  must  gather.  The  berries 
on  the  hedgerows  which  belong  to  all  would  be  its  food. 
So  she  would  train  its  heart  to  wish  for  only  those 
things  that  belonged  to  all.  Never  should  it  know  the 
fretting  passion  of  possession.  Work  was  man's  justi- 
fication, not  ownership,  and  a  workman  he  should  be ; 
one  who  gave  with  the  sweat  of  his  brow  and  who,  by 
the  heart  to  give  which  she  would  stir  in  him,  would 
covet  of  none  the  things  they  called  their  own. 

In  this  spirit  —  and  little  more  it  was  in  a  grasping 
world  than  an  ecstasy  of  thought  —  Mary  Throgmor- 
ton  came  to  Yarningdale  Farm. 

She  knew  it  was  a  dream  she  had  had ;  a  dream  in- 
duced in  her  by  the  heat  of  the  day,  the  monotonous 
vibrations  of  that  old  vehicle  she  had  ridden  in,  the 
still  quiet  of  the  countryside  through  which  she  had 
passed.  Yet,  nevertheless,  for  all  its  ecstasy,  for  all 
the  dream  it  might  be,  such  a  dream  it  was  as  any 
woman  must  surely  have,  so  circumstanced  as  she;  so 
driven  to  rely  upon  what  she  alone  could  give  her  child 
for  walking  staff  to  serve  him  on  his  journey. 
Knowing  it  was  a  dream,  it  seemed  no  less  real  to 
193 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

her.  Lying  that  night  on  the  hard-mattressed  bed,  in 
her  little  room  beneath  the  eaves  of  the  thatch,  she  took 
the  dream  in  purpose  into  her  very  soul.  Give  she 
must,  and  all  she  had,  and  what  else  had  she  to  give  but 
this?  For  that  moment  and  for  all  the  months  to 
follow  it  could  be  given  in  the  utmost  fullness  of  her 
mind.  Was  it  not  now  and  most  of  all  when  he  was 
^closer  to  her  being  than  ever  it  should  so  chance  again, 
that  she  could  give  out  of  her  heart  the  spirit  that 
should  go  to  make  him  strong  to  face  the  world  that 
lay  before  him  ? 

Dreams  they  might  be,  but  such  thoughts  would  she 
hold  with  all  the  tenacity  of  her  mind  until,  through 
external  means  alone,  she  was  compelled  to  feed  him. 
For  all  those  seven  months  to  come,  she  herself  would 
work  —  work  in  the  fields  as  he  must  work.  The  sweat 
should  be  on  her  brow  as  it  should  be  on  his.  Her 
limbs  should  ache  as  one  day  his  in  happy  fatigue  of 
labor  should  ache  as  well. 

It  was  thus  she  would  make  him  while  yet  the  time 
of  creation  was  all  her  own  and  then,  when  out  of  her 
breast  he  was  to  take  his  feed  of  life,  there  would  be 
ways  by  which  she  alone  could  train  him  to  his  purpose. 

So  still  she  lay,  thinking  it  all  out  with  thoughts  that 
knew  no  words  to  hamper  them,  that  when  at  last  she 
fell  asleep,  it  was  as  one  passing  through  the  hanging 
of  a  curtain  that  just  fell  into  its  concealing  folds  be- 
hind her  as  she  went. 


II 

< « T  'VE  told  the  old  man,"  Mrs.  Peverell  informed 
:  Mary  the  next  morning.  "  Not  all  of  it,  I 
JL  haven't.  Men  don't  understand  what  beant. 
just  so.  He  can't  abide  what's  dropped  in  the  farm- 
yard comin'  up.  '  Tis  wheat/  I  tell  'en.  "Tain't 
crops/  says  he.  '  'Twill  make  a  bag  of  seed/  I  says. 
'  The  ground  weren't  prepared  for  it/  says  he.  That's 
men.  Mebbe  they're  right.  '  Nature  may  have  her 
plan/  I  tell  'en,  '  but  God  have  his  accidents.'  '  I  can't 
grow  nawthing  by  accident/  says  he.  '  You  can't/ 
says  I,  '  but  afore  you  came,  that's  the  very  way  they 
did  grow  and  I  guess  there's  as  much  rule  about  acci- 
dents as  there  is  of  following  peas  with  wheat/  He 
looks  at  me  then  and  he  says  no  more,  which  is  good 
as  sayin' — '  You  women  be  daft  things/  for  he  picks  up 
his  hat  and  goes  out  and  the  understandin'  doant  come 
back  into  his  eyes  afore  he  feels  the  tilled  earth  under 
his  feet/' 

So  Mr.  Peverell  knew  that  in  certain  time  Mary  was 
going  to  have  a  baby.  He  looked  at  her  shyly  when 
next  they  met.  It  was  in  the  orchard  sloping  down  the 
hill  that  drops  to  the  towpath  of  the  canal.  He  was 
calculating  the  yield  of  apples,  just  showing  their  green 
and  red,  and  she  had  come  to  tell  him  that  the  midday 
meal  was  ready. 

195 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

'  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  he,  when  he  had  always 
called  her  "  Miss  "  before.  This  was  the  hedge,  the 
boundary  of  that  tilled  and  cultivated  field  his  mind 
had  placed  her  in.  Beyond  that  limit,  as  Mrs.  Peverell 
had  said,  he  would  not  understand.  With  a  childish 
simplicity  he  had  accepted  all  that  his  wife  had  told  him. 
She  had  appeased  his  need  for  understanding.  Per- 
fectly satisfied,  he  asked  for  no  more. 

"  Are  you  going  to  give  me  work  to  do  ?  "  she  asked 
as  they  walked  back  together  to  the  house.     "  Real 
work,  I  mean.     I  can  work  and  I'm  so  interested." 
"  Work  won't  be  easy  for  the  likes  of  you,"  said  he. 
"  No,  but  there  are  things  I  could  do.     Things  that 
aren't  quite  so  laborious  as  others.     I  could  milk  the 
cows,  couldn't  I  ?     If  once  I  got  the  trick  of  it,  it  would 
be  easy  enough,  wouldn't  it  ? " 

"  Women  beant  bad  milkers,"  he  agreed  with  en- 
couragement.    "  There's  no  harm  in  'ee  tryin'." 
"When  could  I  begin?" 

"  'Ee  could  try  a  hand  this  evenin'  when  our  lad 
brings  the  cows  in.  They  be  fair  easy  —  them's  we've 
got  now.  Easy  quarters  they  all  of  them  have  and 
they  stand  quiet  enough  wi'  a  bit  of  coaxin'.  I  dessay 
'ee  could  coax  'em  well  enough.  'Ee've  a  softy  voice 
to  listen  to  when  'ee's  wantin'  a  thing  and  means  to  get 
it." 

She  laughed. 

"  I  didn't  know  I  had,"  she  said. 
"  No  ?     Women  doant  know  nawthin',  seems  to  me. 
'Mazin'  'tis  to  me  how  well  they  manages  along." 

196 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

She  went  into  the  cow  sheds  that  evening  and  had  her 
first  lesson.  It  was  tiring  and  trying  and  unsuccessful 
and  her  back  ached.  But  in  the  last  few  minutes,  just 
when  she  was  giving  up  all  hope  of  ever  being  able  to 
do  it  and  the  strain  of  trying  had  relaxed  in  her  fingers, 
a  stream  of  milk  shot  forth  from  the  quarter  she  held 
in  response  to  the  simplest  pressure  of  her  hand. 

"That's  it!  That's  it!"  exclaimed  the  boy. 
"  Doant  'ee  get  into  the  way  of  strippin'  'em  with  'ee's 
fingers,  not  till  they've  got  to  be  stripped  and  'twon't 
come  t'other  way." 

She  rose  the  next  morning  early  when  through  her 
window  she  heard  the  cows  coming  into  the  yard  and 
slipping  on  her  clothes  without  thought  of  how  she 
looked,  she  went  down  to  the  shed  and  tried  again. 

In  three  days'  time  she  had  mastered  it  and  gave  an 
exhibition  of  her  skill  to  Mr.  Peverell  who  stood  by 
with  smiles  suffusing  his  face. 

"That'll  do,"  said  he.  "The  lad  couldn't  do  no 
better'n  that." 

"  Well,  can't  I  look  after  the  cows  altogether?  "  she 
begged.  "  Drive  them  in  and  out  and  feed  and  milk 
them  ?  Then  you  can  have  the  boy  for  other  work." 

"  It's  a  samesome  job,"  he  warned  her.  "  There's 
clockwork  inside  them  cows'  udders  and  'tain't  always 
convenient  to  a  lady  like  yourself  to  go  by  it." 

"Can't  you  believe  me,"  she  exclaimed,  "when  I 
tell  you  I  don't  consider  myself  a  lady,  any  more  than 
Mrs.  Peverell  wastes  her  time  in  doing?  I'm  just  a 
woman  like  she  is  and  I  want  to  work,  not  spasmodi- 

197 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

cally,  not  just  here  and  there,  but  all  the  time.  Do  you 
remember  what  you  said  about  helping?  " 

"  I've  no  recollection,"  he  replied. 

"  Well,  you  said  it  wasn't  help  was  wanted  in  a  hay- 
field,  'twas  work.  I  want  to  make  something-  of  myself 
while  I'm  here.  I  don't  just  want  to  think  I'm  mak- 
ing something.  Can't  you  trust  me  to  do  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Peverell  looked  with  a  smile  at  his  wife  who 
had  come  out  to  witness  the  exhibition. 

"  What  do  you  think,  mother  ?  "  said  he. 

"  I  think  women  knows  a  lot  more'n  what  you  un- 
derstand, Mr.  Peverell.  You  can  understand  all  what 
you  can  handle  and  if  you  could  handle  her  mind,  you'd 
know  well  enough  she  could  do  it" 

"  So  be,"  said  he  obediently  and  he  turned  to  the 
boy.  "  You  can  take  cartin'  that  grass  out  'long  them 
hedges  this  afternoon,"  he  said.  "  There  woant  be  no 
cows  for  'ee  to  spend  'ee  time  milkin'.  We've  got  a 
milkmaid  come  to  Yarningdale.  They'll  think  I  be 
doin'  mighty  well  with  my  crops  come  I  tell  'em  next 
market  I've  got  a  milkmaid  well  as  a  boy." 


Ill 

THE  life  of  Mary  Throgmorton  during  those 
months  while  she  worked  at  Yarningdale 
Farm  was  a  succession  of  days  so  full  of 
peace,  so  instinct  with  the  real  beauties  which  enter  the 
blood,  suffuse  the  heart,  and  beat  through  all  the  veins, 
that  her  soul,  as  she  had  meant  it  should  be,  was  at- 
tuned by  them  to  minister  to  its  purpose. 

At  six  every  morning  she  descended  from  her  little 
room  beneath  the  thatched  eaves.  At  that  hour  the  air 
was  still.  The  chill  of  the  dew  that  had  fallen  was 
yet  in  it.  The  grass  as  she  walked  through  the  mead- 
ows was  always  wet  underfoot.  Mist  of  heat  on  the 
fine  days  was  lingering  over  the  fields.  Out  of  it  the 
cows  lifted  their  heads  in  a  welcome  following  their 
curiosity  as  she  came  to  drive  them  back  into  the  farm. 

When  once  they  had  come  to  know  her  voice,  when 
once  they  had  come  to  recognize  that  straight  figure  in 
the  cotton  frocks  she  wore,  no  further  need  there  was 
for  her  but  to  reach  the  gate  and  open  it,  calling  a  name 
she  knew  one  by.  They  ceased  their  grazing  at  once 
and  turned  towards  her.  One  by  one  they  trooped 
through  into  the  lane  that  led  to  the  farm.  One  after 
another,  she  had  a  name  to  murmur  as  they  went  by. 

No  moment  in  all  that  labor  there  was  but  had  its 
199 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

freedom  for  contemplation.  As  she  walked  through 
the  meadows  to  gather  them;  as  she  followed  them 
down  the  lanes ;  as  against  the  flanks  of  them  she  leant 
her  cheek,  cool  with  that  morning  air,  stealing  their 
warmth,  there  ever  was  opportunity  for  her  thoughts. 

It  soon  became  automatic  that  process  of  milking. 
Only  at  the  last  moment  when  the  hot  stream  of  milk 
began  to  be  flagging  in  its  flow,  did  she  have  to  detach 
her  thoughts  from  the  purpose  that  governed  her,  and 
concentrate  her  mind  upon  the  necessary  measure  of 
stripping  them  to  the  last  drop. 

But  for  these  moments,  her  thoughts  were  never 
absent  from  that  sacred  freight  she  carried  to  its  jour- 
ney's end.  The  very  occupation  she  had  chosen  all 
contributed  to  such  meditation  as  her  mind  had  need  of. 
The  milk  she  wet  her  fingers  with  as  she  settled  down 
upon  the  stool  before  each  patient  beast,  hot  with  the 
temperature  of  its  blood,  was  stream  of  the  very  foun- 
tain of  life  her  thoughts  were  built  on.  The  rhythmic, 
sibilant  note  as  it  hissed  into  the  pail  between  her  knees, 
became  motif  for  the  melody  of  her  contemplation. 

She  whispered  to  them  sometimes  as  she  milked. 
Whisperings  they  were  that  defy  the  capture  of  ex- 
pression. No  words  could  voice  them  as  she  voiced 
them  with  the  murmur  on  her  lips.  Sometimes  it  was 
she  whispered  to  the  quiet  beast  against  whose  velvet 
flank  her  cheek  was  warming.  Sometimes  she  whis- 
pered to  her  child  as  though  his  cheek  were  there  fast 
pressed  against  her  and  his  lips  were  drawing  the 
stream  of  life  out  of  her  breast. 

200 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH) 

It  cannot  be  wondered  that  she  thought  often  of  these 
things  while  she  was  milkmaid  at  Yarningdale  Farm. 
In  any  environment  the  mind  of  a  woman  at  such  a 
time  must  seek  them  out,  stealing  pictures  of  the  future 
to  feed  her  imagination  upon.  But  there,  in  those 
surroundings,  Mary  Throgmorton  was  close  upon  her 
very  purpose  as  the  days  turned  from  morn  to  evening 
and  the  weeks  slipped  by  towards  the  hour  for  which 
she  waited. 

But  deeper  than  all  such  thoughts  as  these,  there  had 
entered  her  soul  the  wider  and  fuller  conceptions  of 
life.  Subconsciously  she  realized  the  cycle  it  was,  the 
endless  revolving  of  the  circle  of  design  that  had  no 
beginning  and  no  end  but  was  forever  emerging  from 
and  entering  into  itself  in  its  eternal  revolutions,  al- 
ways creating  some  surplus  of  the  divine  essence  of 
energy,  always  discharging  it  in  thought,  in  word  and 
deed ;  flung  from  it,  as  drops  of  water  are  flung  from 
the  speed  of  the  mill  wheel  while  it  turns  to  the  cease- 
less flowing  of  the  stream. 

What  else  could  she  see  with  a  heart  for  seeing, 
what  else,  so  close  to  Nature  as  she  was,  could  she  see 
but  this?  Every  day,  every  night,  the  cattle  ate  their 
fill  of  the  grass  that  had  grown  in  their  pastures. 
Every  morning,  every  evening,  they  gave  their  yield  of 
all  they  had  consumed.  It  was  no  definite  and  con- 
scious observation  that  brought  to  her  eyes  those  vivid 
and  luxuriant  patches  of  green  in  the  fields  where  the 
cows  had  manured  the  grass ;  it  was  no  determined  de- 
duction that  conveyed  to  her  the  realization  how  a  field 

201 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

must  be  grazed,  must  be  eaten  away  and  consumed  to 
increase  it  in  the  virtue  of  its  bearing.  It  was  no 
mechanical  process  of  mind  which  led  her  to  the  under- 
standing of  how  when  the  field  was  cut  for  hay  and 
stacked  within  the  yard  to  feed  the  cattle  through  the 
winter  months,  still  it  returned  in  its  inevitable  cycle 
to  the  fields  to  feed  the  flow  of  life. 

Through  the  winter  months  the  cows  were  stalled 
and  kept  in  their  pound.  In  that  pound  they  trod  to 
manure  the  straw  the  fields  had  grown  and  back  again 
it  would  come  in  the  early  spring  to  lie  once  more  upon 
the  fields  that  had  given  it;  so  ever  and  ever  in  its 
ceaseless  procession,  some  surplus  of  the  energy  that 
was  created  would  be  set  free.  A  calf  would  go  out 
of  the  farm  and  be  sold  at  the  nearest  market.  For 
three  days  its  mother  would  cry  through  the  fields,  hurt 
with  her  loss,  grudging  her  milk,  but  in  the  end  Nature 
would  assert  itself.  She  would  be  caught  back  into 
the  impetus  of  the  everlasting  cycle  of  progression,  ful- 
filling the  purpose  of  life,  contributing  to  the  creation 
of  that  energy  which  was  to  find  its  expression  in  the 
sons  of  men. 

All  this  without  knowing  it  she  learnt  in  the  fields 
and  under  the  thatch  of  Yarningdale  Farm.  All  this, 
as  she  had  meant  to  do,  she  assimilated  into  her  being 
to  feed  that  which  she  herself,  in  her  own  purpose,  was 
creating. 

So  her  son  should  live,  if  it  were  a  boy  she  bore. 
So  she  planned  for  him  a  life  that  had  none  of  the 
limitations  of  possession,  but  must  give  back  again 

202 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

all  that  it  took  with  interest  compounded  of  noblest 
purpose.  This  alone  should  be  his  inheritance,  this 
generosity  of  heart  and  soul  and  being  that  knew  no 
other  impulse  than  to  give  the  whole  and  more  than  it 
had  received. 

Not  one  of  these  impressions  came  with  set  outline 
of  idea  to  the  mind  of  Mary  Throgmorton.  In  the 
evenings  as  she  sat  in  the  kitchen  parlor,  sewing  the 
tiny  garments  she  would  need  and  listening  to  Mr. 
Peverell  talking  as  he  always  did  about  the  land,  it  was 
thus  she  absorbed  them.  Drawn  in  with  her  breath 
they  were,  as  though  the  mere  act  of  breathing  assim- 
ilated them  rather  than  a  precise  effort  of  receptivity. 

The  same  it  was  in  the  fields  where  she  walked,  in 
the  stalls  where  she  milked  her  cows.  Each  breath 
she  took  was  deep.  It  was  as  if  the  scent  of  those 
stalls,  the  air  about  the  meadows,  the  lights  of  morning 
and  evening  all  taught  her  that  which  she  wished  to 
learn. 

Her  mind  was  relaxed  and  just  floating  upon  life 
those  days.  It  is  not  to  be  understood  where  she  learnt 
that  this  must  be  so.  It  is  not  to  be  conceived  how, 
with  her  utter  inexperience,  she  knew  that  no  deter- 
mined effort  to  create  her  child  could  serve  the  purpose 
that  she  had.  In  through  the  pores  of  her  being,  as  it 
became  the  very  air  her  lungs  inhaled,  she  took  the  sen- 
sations which  day  by  day  were  borne  upon  her. 

There  were  times  when,  after  the  first  physical  con- 
sciousness of  her  condition,  she  forgot  she  was  going 
to  bear  a  child.  There  were  times  when  the  knowledge 

203 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

of  it  seemed  so  distant,  that  it  was  as  though  she 
walked  and  lived  in  a  dream,  a  sensuous  dream,  where 
there  was  no  pain,  no  suffering  of  mind,  but  things 
were  and  were  not,  just  as  they  happened  like  clouds 
to  pass  before  her  vision. 

There  were  times  when  she  knew  so  well  all  that 
there  lay  before  her.  Then  pain  seemed  almost  wel- 
come to  her  mind.  Then  she  would  promise  herself 
with  a  fierce  joy  she  would  not  submit  to  any  of  the 
subterfuges  of  skill  to  ease  her  of  it. 

"  I'll  know  he's  being  born,"  she  would  say  aloud. 
"  I'll  know  every  moment  to  keep  for  memory.  Why 
should  I  hide  away  from  life,  or  lose  an  instant  because 
it  conies  with  pain?  " 

So  Mary  Throgmorton  traversed  the  months  that 
brought  her  to  fulfillment;  so  time  slipped  by  with  its 
clear  mornings  and  the  dropping  lights  of  evening  till 
winter  came  and  still,  with  the  nearing  approach  of  her 
hour,  she  continued  milking  the  cows  for  Mr.  Peverell. 
Not  all  the  persuasion  they  offered  could  make  her 
cease  from  her  duties. 

"  I'm  milkmaid  here,"  she  said.  "  Any  farm  girl 
would  keep  on  to  the  last.  There'll  be  some  days  yet 
for  my  hands  to  lie  in  my  lap.  Let  them  touch  some- 
thing till  then." 

They  let  her  have  her  way.  Only  the  carter  and  the 
boy  were  there  about  the  place  to  see  her.  She  had  no 
sense  of  shyness  with  them.  Every  now  and  again 
some  cow  was  taken  to  a  farm  near  by  to  profit.  It  was 
common  talk,  unhampered  by  any  reticence,  to  com- 

204 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

ment  upon  the  condition  of  each  beast  as  she  neared 
her  calving  time.  The  functions  and  operations  of 
Nature  were  part  of  the  vast  plan  of  that  ever-revolv- 
ing cycle  to  them.  They  knew  no  coarseness  in  their 
attitude  of  mind;  they  knew  no  preciousness  of  mod- 
esty. 

Before  she  had  been  at  Yarningdale  for  long,  Mary 
realized  with  the  greater  fullness  of  perception  how  vast 
a  degree  of  false  modesty  there  was  in  the  world  as 
people  congregated  in  the  cities  and  with  brick  walls 
and  plaster  shut  themselves  out  from  the  sight  of 
Nature. 

It  had  all  been  false,  that  modesty  which  their  mother 
had  taught  them.  Love,  pleasure  and  passion,  if 
these  were  the  fruits  of  the  soul  man  had  won  for  him- 
self, what  shame  could  there  be  in  permitting  them 
their  just  expression?  Love  was  uplifting  and  in  the 
ecstasy  it  brought  were  not  the  drops  flung  farther, 
higher  from  the  wheel  in  the  acceleration  of  its  revolu- 
tions? Was  not  the  stream  in  flood,  those  moments 
when  love  came  in  its  torrent  to  the  heart  of  a  man? 
Once  for  a  moment  she  had  loved  and  knew  now  that 
ecstasy  could  never  come  to  her  again. 

Pleasure,  it  was  true,  she  had  never  known,  but  the 
deep  passion  of  motherhood  none  could  rob  her  of. 
AJ1  those  days  and  weeks  and  months  were  hours  of 
passionate  joy  to  her.  Never  was  she  idle.  Never 
was  her  passion  still. 

That  moment,  one  night  it  was  with  the  moonlight 
falling  on  her  bed,  when  first  she  felt  the  movement  of 

205 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

her  child  within  her,  was  so  passionate  a  joy  of  phys- 
ical realization  that  she  sat  up  in  her  bed  and,  with  the 
pale  light  on  her  face,  the  tears  swelled  to  overflowing 
in  her  eyes. 

"  What  should  I  have  done,  what  should  I  have 
been,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  "  if  this  had  never  hap- 
pened to  me?" 

Occasionally  during  those  seven  months  there  were 
letters  reaching  her  from  Bridnorth.  Fanny  wrote  and 
Hannah  wrote.  Never  was  there  a  letter  from  Jane. 
At  first  they  asked  if  they  might  come  and  see  her,  but 
when  she  replied  she  was  happier  alone,  that  seeing 
her  as  she  was,  they  might  the  less  be  able  to  under- 
stand her  happiness,  they  asked  no  more. 

In  further  letters  they  wrote  giving  her  Bridnorth 
news,  the  people  who  had  come  down  that  summer,  the 
comments  that  were  made  upon  her  absence  and  later, 
when  the  actual  truth  leaked  out. 

"  People  have  been  very  kind  on  the  whole,"  wrote 
Hannah  in  a  subsequent  letter.  "  I  think  they  are 
really  sorry.  Only  yesterday  the  Vicar  said,  *  God  has 
strange  ways  of  visiting  us  with  trouble.  We  must 
take  it  that  He  means  it  for  the  best,  impossible  though 
it  is  for  us  to  see  what  good  can  come  of  it.'  I  had 
never  realized,"  was  Hannah's  comment,  "  that  he  was 
as  broad-minded  as  this,  and  it  has  given  me  much  help. 
I  hope  you  are  taking  every  care  of  yourself  and  that 
the  old  farmer's  wife  is  competent  to  give  you  good 
advice  upon  what  you  ought  to  do.  You  say  you  are 
still  working  on  the  farm.  Is  that  wise?  Mother  used 

206 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

to  go  to  bed  every  day  for  an  hour  or  so  before  you 
were  born.  I  remember  it  so  well.  Oh,  Mary,  why 
did  you  ever  let  it  happen  ?  " 

Why?  Why?  Why  had  God  ever  found  such 
favor  in  her  in  preference  to  them  ?  That  was  all  she 
asked  herself. 

One  day  a  letter  lay  on  her  plate  at  breakfast.  It 
was  readdressed  from  Bridnorth  and  was  in  Liddiard's 
handwriting.  For  long  she  debated  whether  she  would 
open  it  or  not.  What  memories  might  it  not  revive? 
What  wound  might  it  not  open,  even  the  scar  of  which 
she  could  hardly  trace  by  now  ? 

Her  child  had  no  father.  Touch  with  Liddiard's 
mind  again  in  those  moments  might  make  her  wish  he 
had ;  might  make  her  wish  she  had  a  hand  to  hold 
when  her  hour  should  come;  might  make  her  need 
the  presence  of  some  one  close  that  she  might  not  feel 
so  completely  alone. 

Yet  even  nursing  these  thoughts,  her  fingers  had 
torn  the  envelope  without  volition ;  her  eyes  had  turned 
to  the  paper  without  intent. 

"  I  have  heard  from  your  sister  Jane,"  he  wrote.  "  She 
tells  me  she  thinks  I  ought  to  know  what  is  happening  to 
you.  She  writes  bitterly  in  every  word  as  though  I  had 
cast  you  off  to  bear  the  burden  of  this  alone.  God  knows 
that  is  not  true.  In  the  first  letter  I  wrote  you  after  I 
left  Bridnorth,  if  you  have  kept  it,  you  will  find  how 
earnestly  I  assured  you  I  would,  in  such  an  event,  do  all 
I  could.  Where  are  you  and  why  have  you  never  ap- 
pealed to  me?  Surely  I  could  have  helped  and  so  will- 
ingly I  would  Wherever  you  are,  won't  you  let  me  come 

207 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

and  see  you?  One  of  these  days,  of  course  without  men- 
tioning your  name,  I  shall  tell  my  wife  everything.  I 
have  some  feeling  in  my  heart  she  will  understand." 

That  same  day,  Mary  answered  his  letter. 

"  Please  take  no  notice  of  my  sister  Jane.  She  would 
punish  you  as  she  has  punished  me.  That  is  her  view  of 
what  has  happened.  I  know  you  would  do  all  you  could. 
It  hurts  me  a  little  to  hear  you  think  I  should  doubt  it. 
Do  not  worry  about  me.  I  am  away  in  the  country  and 
intensely  happy.  Never  was  I  so  happy.  Never  I  ex- 
pect will  I  be  quite  so  happy  again.  You  have  nothing 
to  fret  yourself  about.  It  would  cast  some  kind  of 
shadow  over  all  this  happiness  if  I  thought  you  were. 
You  have  no  cause  for  it.  I  shall  always  be  grateful  to 
you.  I  do  not  put  my  address  at  the  head  of  this  letter, 
because  somehow  I  fear  you  would  come  to  see  me,  how- 
ever strong  my  wishes  were  that  you  should  not." 

"  'Ee's  thoughtful,  Maidy,"  Mrs.  Peverell  said  to  her 
when  she  returned  from  posting  her  letter  in  Lonesome 
Ford. 

"Ami?" 

"  'Ee've  had  a  letter  from  him." 

"  How  did  you  know?  " 

"  How  do  my  Peverell  know  there'd  be  rain  acomin'  ? 
He  says  he  feels  it  in  his  bones.  Men's  bones  and 
women's  hearts  be  peculiarsome  things." 


IV 

IT  was  a  boy.    Full  in  the  month  of  March  he 
came,  with  a  storm  rushing  across  the  fields  where 
the   rooks   already   were   gathering   in   the  elm 
trees  and  the  first,  dull  red  of  blossom  was  flushing  the 
winter  black  of  the  branches  against  the  clouds  of 
thunder  blue. 

High  as  was  the  cry  of  that  southwest  wind,  sweep- 
ing the  trees  and  rattling  the  windows  in  their  case- 
ments, his  first  cry  beneath  the  thatch  of  Yarningdale 
Farm  uplifted  above  every  other  sound  in  the  ears  of 
Mrs.  Peverell  and  Mary  as  they  heard  it. 

The  doctor  who  attended  her  from  Henley-in-Arden 
had  proposed  an  anaesthetic. 

"  Your  first  child,"  he  said.  "  It'll  just  make  things 
easier." 

Had  her  pain  been  less  she  would  have  spoken  for 
herself.  Had  she  spoken,  a  cry  might  have  escaped 
with  the  words  between  her  lips.  She  looked  across  at 
Mrs.  Peverell  who  knew  her  mind  and  she  shook  her 
head. 

"  She  wants  it  just  natural,"  said  the  farmer's  wife. 

"  'Ee  can  see  for  'eeself  she's  strong.  'Tain't  no  hide 
and  seek  affair  with  her." 

"  It's  going  to  be  a  bit  worse  than  she  thinks,"  mut- 
tered the  doctor. 

209 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  Can't  be  worse'n  a  woman  thinks,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Peverell.  "  Let  'ee  mind  as  carefully  as  'ee  can  what 
she  feels  —  what  she  thinks'll  be  beyond  'ee  or  me." 

Peverell  came  back  from  plowing  at  midday  with 
the  clods  of  earth  on  his  boots. 

"  Come  there  be  no  rain  to-night,"  said  he.  "  I'll 
have  that  corn  sown  in  to-morrow." 

"  We  have  our  harvest  in  upstairs  a' ready,"  said  she. 

He  wheeled  round  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes  wide 
upon  her. 

"  Damn  it !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I'd  complete  forgot 
our  maidy  on  her  birth-bed." 

She  gazed  at  him  a  moment  in  silence,  with  words 
unspoken  in  her  glance  he  had  uncomfortable  con- 
sciousness of,  yet  did  not  know  one  instant  all  they 
meant.  It  left  him  with  a  disagreeable  sense  of  in- 
feriority, just  when  he  had  been  congratulating  him- 
self on  a  piece  of  work  well  done. 

"  'Ee  won't  forget  when  'ee  sows  the  seed  to-morrow 
in  that  field,"  said  she  quietly.  "  Come  time  'ee  has  it 
broadcast  sown,  the  sweat'll  be  on  thy  brow,  an'  'ee 
limbs  be  aching."  She  lifted  the  corner  of  her  apron 
significantly.  "  I've  wiped  the  sweat  off  her  brow  and 
laid  her  body  comfortable  in  the  bed  and  now  I'll  get 
the  meat  to  put  in  'ee  stomach." 

He  knew  he  had  made  some  grievous  error  some- 
where. Forgetting  their  maidy  and  her  babe  upstairs 
no  doubt.  He  ate  the  food  she  brought  him  in  silence, 
like  a  child  aware  of  disgrace ;  but  why  it  should  be  so, 
just  because  he  had  forgotten  about  a  woman  having 

210 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

a  baby  was  more  than  he  could  account  for.  It  was 
not  as  if  it  had  been  a  slack  day  or  a  Sabbath.  That 
ground  was  just  nice  and  ready  for  the  wheat  to  go  in. 
Still,  it  was  no  good  saying  anything.  He  had  hurt 
her  feelings  some  way  and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  He 
knew  well  that  steady  look  in  the  sunken  eyes,  the  set 
line,  a  little  tighter  drawn  in  the  thin  lips. 

It  worried  him  as  he  ate  his  meal.  It  always  wor- 
ried him.  Somehow  it  seemed  to  make  the  food  taste 
dry  in  his  mouth.  It  had  no  such  succulence  as  when 
all  was  just  right,  and  he  had  come  in  for  his  dinner 
after  a  hard  morning's  work.  For  never  by  conscious 
word  had  he  hurt  her.  Never,  in  all  the  thirty-seven 
years  they  had  been  married,  had  there  been  an  in- 
stant's intent  in  him  to  make  her  suffer. 

It  was  in  these  unaccountable  ways,  in  chance  words, 
harmless  enough  in  all  conscience  to  him,  in  little  things 
he  did  and  little  things  he  left  undone,  that  this  look 
she  had,  came  in  these  sudden  moments  into  her  face. 

"  Women  be  queer  cattle,"  he  would  say  to  himself. 
"  There  be  no  ways  treatin'  'em  alike.  'Ee  might  think 
'ee'd  got  'em  goin'  one  way  when  round  they'll  come 
and  go  t'other." 

As  a  rule  this  silent  summary  of  the  whole  sex  would 
satisfy  him  in  regard  to  the  one  in  particular  he  had  in 
mind.  With  a  sweep  of  his  hand  across  his  mouth 
after  his  meal  was  over,  he  would  go  back  to  his  work 
and  once  his  feet  felt  the  fields  beneath  them,  he  would 
forget  all  about  it. 

'Somehow  this  time  he  seemed  to  know  there  was 

211 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

little  hope  of  forgetting.  Whether  it  was  his  food 
tasted  drier  than  usual;  whether  some  meaning  of 
what  she  had  said  about  the  sweat  on  his  brow  and  the 
sweat  of  her  who  labored  upstairs  there  with  her  child 
had  reached  with  faint  rays  of  illumination  to  his  ap- 
preciative mind,  whatever  it  was,  the  fields  called  in 
vain  to  him. 

He  was  restless,  uneasy.  Without  cause  he  knew 
of,  he  felt  a  little  ashamed.  Rising  from  the  table,  he 
moved  about  the  room  lighting  his  pipe.  He  felt  like 
some  child  with  a  lie  or  a  theft  upon  his  conscience. 
When  his  pipe  was  well  lit  and  hard  rammed  down, 
finding  he  had  no  patience  to  sit  awhile  as  was  his 
custom,  he  went  in  search  of  his  wife. 

From  something  she  had  said  about  making  as  little 
noise  as  possible,  he  knew  she  was  not  upstairs  with 
her  patient.  If  he  asked  her  straight  out,  perhaps  she 
would  tell  him  what  was  the  matter,  what  he  had  said, 
what  possibly  he  had  done. 

She  was  not  in  the  scullery.  Softly  he  opened  the 
door  of  the  larder  and  looked  in.  She  was  not  there. 
With  his  heart  beating  in  unaccustomed  pulses  he  crept 
upstairs  to  their  bedroom,  thinking  to  himself, 
"  Plowed  fields  be  better  walking  for  the  likes  of 
me." 

"  Mother,"  he  whispered,  and  opened  the  door. 

She  was  not  there. 

In  despair  he  turned  to  the  stairs  again,  drawing 
a  deep  breath  when  he  reached  the  bottom.  Only  the 
parlor  was  left,  unless  she  were  out  of  the  house  alto- 

212 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

gether.  He  looked  in.  It  was  empty.  He  was  turn- 
ing away  when  there  caught  his  attention  the  unusual 
sight  of  the  big  Bible  lying  open  on  the  table.  He 
crossed  the  room  to  look  at  it.  Was  it  so  bad  she'd 
had  to  be  reading  some  of  that? 

It  was  opened  at  the  first,  clean  page.  No  printing 
was  on  it,  but  there  in  ink,  still  wet,  was  written  in 
her  handwriting — "John  Throgmorton,  at  Yarning- 
dale,  March  i7th,  1896." 

Some  idea  flashed  out  from  that  page  as  he  leant 
over  it.  It  reached  some  hitherto  unused  function  of 
perception  in  his  brain.  He  knew  now  why  that  look 
had  come  into  her  eyes.  He  knew  even  what  it  was 
he  had  said,  or  rather  what  he  had  forgotten  to  say 
that  had  hurt  her.  All  this  was  reminding  her  how  she 
wanted  a  child  of  her  own.  But  had  he  not  wanted 
one  too  ?  Was  not  the  loss  as  much  his  that  he  had  no 
son  to  take  the  handles  of  the  plow  when  his  hands 
had  ceased  to  hold  them  ? 

He  turned  as  she  entered  the  room  with  a  piece  of 
blotting  paper  she  had  fetched  from  his  desk  in  the 
kitchen  where  he  wrote  out  his  accounts. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  and  he  fidgeted  with  his  hands, 
"  I  know  what's  worryin'  'ee.  I  ought  t'have  thought 
of  it  afore  now,  but  we  been  past  it  these  many  years, 
it  had  gone  out  o'  my  head  for  the  moment.  B'lieve 
me  I've  wanted  one  same  as  'ee." 

She  knew  he  was  a  good  man  as  she  looked  at  him, 
but  could  not  think  of  that  then. 
"  I've  wanted  'ee  to  have  fair  crops,"  said  she,  "  but 
213  i 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

it's  only  been  disappointment  to  me  when  they've 
failed.  Yet  I've  seen  it  make  'ee  feel  'ee  was  not  man 
enough  for  the  task  God  had  set  'ee." 

With  a  steady  hand,  she  blotted  the  page  and  shut 
the  book,  then  taking  him  by  the  arm,  she  led  him  out 
of  the  room  and  closed  the  door. 

"  There's  one  of  them  young  black  minorcas  has  the 
croup,"  said  she. 

"  They  be  plaguy  things,"  he  replied. 


TALKING  of  the  future  one  day  with  Mrs. 
Peverell,  Mary  had  said  that  if  it  were  a  boy, 
his  name  must  be  John.     So  definite  had  she 
been  in  her  decision  about  this,  that  without  further 
question  the  good  woman  had  written  it  in  the  big 
Bible. 

"  John's  a  man's  name,"  Mary  had  said ;  "  there's 
work  in  it."  Then,  dismissing  her  smile  and  speaking 
still  more  earnestly,  she  had  continued,  "If  anything 
were  to  happen  to  me,  I  should  leave  him  to  you. 
Would  you  take  him  ?  " 

The  sunken  eyes  were  quite  steady  before  the  gaze 
they  met. 

"How  could  we  give  'en  the  bringin'  up?"  she 
asked. 

"  He  shall  have  no  bringing  up  but  this,"  Mary  had 
replied.  "  I  told  you  first  of  all  I  didn't  come  here  to 
hide.  I  chose  this  place  because  I  knew  I  could  touch 
life  here  and  make  him  all  I  wanted  him  to  be.  This 
is  what  I  want  him,  a  good  man  and  a  true  man  and  a 
real  one,  like  your  husband.  I  want  him  to  know  that 
he  owes  all  to  the  earth  he  works  in.  What  money  I 
have  shall  be  yours  to  keep  and  clothe  him.  Indeed  I 
hope  nothing  will  happen  for  I  know  so  well  what  I 

215 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

want  him  to  be.  I've  always  known  it,  it  seems  to  me 
now.  I've  only  realized  it  these  last  few  months. 
Milking  these  cows,  walking  in  the  meadows,  living 
here  on  this  farm,  I've  learnt  to  realize  it.  Giving  is 
life.  We  can't  all  give  the  same  thing,  but  it  is  in  the 
moment  of  giving  that  most  we  feel  alive.  Acquiring, 
possessing,  putting  a  value  on  things  and  hoarding 
them  by,  there's  only  a  living  death,  a  stagnant  despair 
and  discontent  in  that." 

"  'Ee's  talkin'  beyond  me,"  said  Mrs.  Peverell  watch- 
ing her.  "  'Ee's  well  taught  at  school  and  'ee's  talkin' 
beyond  me.  I  never  had  no  learnin'  what  I  got  of 
use  to  me  out  of  books.  But  come  one  day  an'  an- 
other, I've  learnt  that  wantin'  things  may  help  'ee  get- 
tin'  'em,  but  it  stales  'em  when  they  come.  All  I  could 
have  given  my  man,  ain't  there  for  givin'.  God  knows 
best  why.  Most  willing  would  I  have  gone  wi'out  life 
to  give  'en  a  child  to  patter  its  feet  on  these  bricks.  He 
doant  know  that.  I  wouldn't  tell  'en.  He'd  say 
there  warn't  no  sense  in  my  talkin'  that  way.  Men 
want  life  to  live  by,  but  it  seems  to  me  sometimes 
death's  an  easy  thing  to  a  woman  when  it  comes  that 
way.  I  s'pose  it's  what  'ee'd  call  the  moment  of  givin' 
and  doant  seem  like  death  to  her." 

Mary  had  leant  forward,  stretching  out  her  hand  and 
taking  the  knotted  knuckles  in  her  fingers. 

"You  haven't  lost  much,"  she  had  said,  "by  not 
having  myadvantage  of  education.  What  you've  just 
said  is  bigger  than  any  learning  could  make  it.  I  don't 
think  we  speak  any  more  of  truth  because  we  have 

216 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

more  words  to  express  it  with.  I'm  sure  we  think  less. 
Do  you  think  I  could  find  any  one  better  to  teach 
him  than  you?  It  is  women  who  teach.  Your  hus- 
band will  show  him  the  way,  but  you  will  give  him 
that  idea  in  his  heart  to  take  it.  I  long  so  much  to  give 
it  to  him  myself  that  I  haven't  your  courage.  Some- 
times I'm  afraid  I  may  die.  I  don't  let  it  have  any 
power  over  me  but  sometimes  I  confess  I'm  afraid, 
because  you  see  I  want  to  give  him  more  than  his 
life.  I  want  to  give  him  his  ideals.  Perhaps  that's 
because  I've  no  one  else  to  give  him  to.  My  life  won't 
seem  complete  unless  I  can  live  beyond  that.  Anyhow 
I  wanted  to  say  this.  If  I  have  to  give  him,  I  want 
it  to  be  to  you  and  I  want  you  to  know  that  that  is 
how  I  wish  him  to  be  brought  up.  If  he  has  big 
things  in  life  to  give,  he'll  find  them  out.  He'll  leave 
the  farm.  Perhaps  he'll  break  your  heart  in  leaving 
—  perhaps  he'll  break  mine  if  I  live,  but  I  want  him 
first  to  learn  from  the  earth  itself  the  life  there  is  in 
giving  and  then,  let  it  be  what  it  may,  for  him  to  give 
his  best." 

Mrs.  Peverell  nodded  her  head  to  imply  understand- 
ing. 

"  It's  them  as  doant  suffer  can  talk  about  sin,"  she 
had  said,  which  by  no  means  was  Mary's  train  of 
thought,  though  her  words  had  somehow  suggested  it 
to  Mrs.  Peverell's  range  of  comprehension.  "  I  should 
have  called  all  this  sin  years  ago.  Didn't  I  say  'twas 
sin  when  first  'ee  told  me  ?  Well,  it  beats  me  what  sin 
is.  Tain't  what  I  thought  it.  We  be  born  with  it, 

217 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

they  say.     Well,  if  the  babes  I  seen  be  born  with  sin, 
'tain't  what  any  one  thinks  it." 

It  was  obvious  Mrs.  Peverell  had  not  followed  her 
in  the  flight  of  her  hopes  and  purposes.  The  right  and 
the  wrong  of  it,  the  pain  arid  the  joy  of  it,  these  were  all 
that  her  mind  grasped.  But  these  she  grasped  with  a 
clearness  of  vision  that  assured  Mary's  heart  of  a  safe 
guardianship  if  ill  should  befall  her.  Such  a  clearness 
of  vision  it  was  as  set  her  high  above  many  of  the 
women  she  had  known. 

How  was  that?  What  was  it  about  women  that  so 
few  of  them  had  any  vision  at  all  ?  To  how  many  she 
knew  would  she  entrust  her  child?  Often  she  had  lis- 
tened in  amazement  to  Hannah  instructing  the  children 
at  home.  She  remembered  the  mistresses  where  she 
had  been  at  school  herself.  She  recalled  her  mother's 
advice  to  her  when  she  had  left  school.  Everywhere  it 
was  the  same. 

Only  here  and  there  where  a  woman  had  suffered  at 
the  hands  of  life  did  vision  seem  to  be  awakened  in 
her.  Many  were  worldly,  many  were  shrewd  and 
clever  enough  in  their  dealings  with  circumstance.  But 
how  few  there  were  who  knew  of  any  purpose  in  their 
souls  beyond  that  of  dressing  their  bodies  for  honest 
vanity's  sake,  or  marrying  suitably  for  decent  com- 
fort's sake. 

Here,  was  it  again  the  force-made  laws,  the  laws  by 
which  men  set  a  paled  and  barbed  fence  about  the  pos- 
sessions they  had  won?  Were  all  these  women  their 
possessions  too,  as  little  capable  of  freedom  of  thought 

218 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

as  were  of  action  their  dogs,  their  horses,  the  cattle  on 
their  hedged-in  fields  ? 

She  Had  heard  of  votes  for  women  in  those  days. 
In  Bridnorth  as  in  most  places  it  was  a  jest.  What 
would  they  do  with  the  vote  when  they  had  it?  They 
laughed  with  the  rest.  Women  in  Parliament !  They 
would  only  make  fools  of  themselves  with  their  trem- 
bling voices  raised  in  a  company  of  men. 

She  could  not  herself  quite  see  all  that  the  vote  might 
mean.  Little  may  that  be  wondered  at,  seeing  that 
when  they  obtained  it,  there  would  be  countless  among 
them  who  still  would  be  ignorant  of  its  worth  and 
power.  Whatever  it  might  mean,  she  knew  in  those 
days  that  her  sex  had  little  of  the  vision  of  the  ideal ; 
she  knew  it  was  little  aware  of  the  true  values  and 
meanings  of  life,  that  thousands  of  her  sisters  wasted 
out  their  days  in  ceaseless  pandering  to  the  acquisitive 
passions  of  men. 

"  'Ee's  thinkin'  long  and  deep,  maidy,"  Mrs.  Peverell 
had  said  when  the  silence  after  her  last  remarks  had 
closed  about  them.  "  Are  'ee  wonderin'  after  all  this 
time  what  the  sin  of  it  might  be?  Are  'ee  thinkin' 
what  the  Vicar'll  say  when  'ee  has  to  explain  it  all  to 
'en." 

"  Why  must  I  tell  him?  "  asked  Mary. 

"Don't  'ee  want  the  child  baptized?" 

With  all  the  thoughts  she  had  had,  with  all  the  prep- 
aration she  had  made,  she  had  not  thought  of  this. 
The  habit  of  her  religion  was  about  her  still.  Every 
Sunday  morning  she  had  sat  with  the  Peverells  in  the 

219 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

pew  it  was  their  custom  to  occupy.  Something  there 
was  in  religion  no  clearness  of  vision  seemed  able  to 
destroy. 

"  He  must  be  baptized,"  she  had  said  and  turned  in 
their  mind  to  face  once  more  the  difficulties  with  which 
the  world  beset  her. 


VI 

THE  upbringing  of  John  Throgmorton  at  Yarn- 
ingdale  Farm  has  more  of  the  nature  of  an 
idyll  in  it  than  one  is  wont  to  ask  for  in  a 
modern  world,  where  idylls  are  out  of  fashion  and 
it  has  become  the  habit  to  set  one's  teeth  at  life. 

Still  continuing,  as  soon  as  she  was  strong  again,  to 
fulfill  the  duties  of  milkmaid  for  Mr.  Peverell,  Mary 
spent  all  her  spare  time  with  her  child.  No  fretting 
mother  she  was,  but  calm  and  serene  in  all  her  doings. 
He  took  no  fever  of  spirit  from  her. 

"  Seems  as  if  the  milk  she  give  him  must  almost  be 
cool,"  said  Mrs.  Peverell  to  her  husband,  who  now, 
since  the  registration  of  John's  birth  had  had  to  be  told 
the  truth  —  that  there  was  no  father  —  that  Mary  was 
one  of  those  women  who  had  gone  astray. 

"  Fair,  she  beats  me,"  he  replied.  "  Ain't  there  no 
shame  to  her?  Not  that  I  want  to  see  her  shamed. 
But  it  'mazes  me  seein'  her  calm  and  easy  like  this. 
Keep  them  cows  quiet,  I  told  her  when  she  'gan  amilkin' 
—  keep  'em  easy.  Don't  fret  'em.  They'll  give  'ee 
half  as  much  milk  again  if  'ee  don't  fret  'em.  And 
when  the  flies  were  at  'en  last  summer,  dommed  if  she 
didn't  get  more  milk  than  that  lad  could  have  got. 
That's  where  she's  learnt  it.  She  ain't  frettin'  herself 

221 


when  most  women  'ud  be  hangin'  their  heads  and  turn- 
in'  the  milk  to  water  in  their  breasts  wi'  shame.  I 
doant  make  her  out  and  that's  the  truth  of  it." 

Yet  he  had  made  her  out  far  better  than  he  knew. 
That  was  where  she  had  learnt  the  secret,  as  she  had 
intended  she  should  learn  all  the  secrets  it  was  possible 
to  know.  On  sunny  days  she  took  her  baby  with  her 
into  the  fields  where  the  cows  were  grazing. 

One  by  one  on  the  first  of  these  occasions,  solemnly 
she  showed  them  the  treasure  she  brought.  Sponsors, 
they  were,  she  told  them,  having  had  recent  acquaint- 
ance with  that  word.  One  by  one  they  stared  with 
velvet  eyes  at  the  bundle  that  was  presented  to  them. 

When  that  ceremony  was  over,  solemnly  proclaimed 
with  words  the  written  word  can  give  no  meaning  to, 
she  found  for  herself  a  sheltered  corner  in  the  hedge- 
row, there  unfastening  her  dress  and  with  cool  fingers 
lifting  her  breast  for  his  lips  to  suckle  where  none  could 
watch  her.  The  warm  spring  air  on  those  sunny  days 
was  no  less  food  for  him  than  the  milk  she  gave.  With 
gurgling  noises  he  drew  it  in.  With  round,  dark  eyes, 
set  fast  with  the  purposes  of  life,  he  took  his  fill  as  she 
gazed  upon  him. 

That  there  was  nothing  more  wonderful  to  a  woman 
than  this,  Mary  knew  in  all  the  certainty  of  her  heart. 
There  alone  with  her  baby,  she  wanted  no  other  pas- 
sion, no  other  love,  no  other  company.  This  for  a 
woman  was  the  completeness  of  fulfillment.  Yet  this 
it  was  that  men  denied  to  so  many. 

She  knew  then  in  those  moments  that  no  shame 
222 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

would  be  too  great  to  bear  with  patience  for  such  real- 
ization of  life  as  this.  Realization  it  was  and,  to  fail 
in  knowing  it,  was  like  a  fallow  field  to  have  yielded 
naught  but  a  harvest  of  weeds  in  which  there  was 
shame  indeed. 

Often  in  the  previous  summer  she  had  heard  Mr. 
Peverell  bitterly  accusing  himself  for  the  bare  and 
weedy  patches  in  his  crops.  Twice  since  she  had  been 
there  on  the  farm  had  a  barren  cow  been  sent  to  market 
for  sale  because  it  was  of  no  use  to  them.  They  had 
been  cows  she  herself  had  named.  She  had  fretted 
when  they  were  driven  away  and  had  taken  herself  far 
from  the  yard  when  it  came  to  the  moment  of  their 
departure. 

Yet  no  word  of  pleading  had  she  said  to  Mr.  Peverell 
on  such  occasions.  Receive  and  give,  these  were  the 
laws  she  recognized  and  found  no  power  of  sentiment 
strong  enough  in  her  to  make  her  seek  or  need  to  dis- 
obey them.  Gain  and  keep  —  against  such  principles 
as  these  her  soul  had  caparisoned  and  armed  itself, 
clearly  knowing  how  all  laws  in  the  operation  must 
carry  with  them  the  savor  of  injustice,  uncomplaining 
if  that  injustice  should  be  measured  for  her  portion. 
For  never  so  great  an  injustice  could  it  be  as  that  which 
men  in  their  ideals  of  possession  and  inheritance  had 
meted  out  to  women.  Living  there  at  Yarningdale 
Farm  so  close  to  the  land,  she  had  found  a  greater 
beneficence  in  Nature  than  in  all  the  organized  charity 
of  mankind. 

On  the  second  occasion  when  the  barren  cow  had 
223 


.THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

been  sent  to  market  some  delay  had  been  made  in  her 
departure  and  Mary  had  returned  to  the  house  just  as 
the  flurried  beast  had  been  driven  out  of  the  yard. 
With  head  averted,  she  had  quickened  her  steps  into 
the  house,  finding  Mrs.  Peverell  looking  out  of  the 
window  in  the  parlor  kitchen. 

"Why  are  they  drivin'  that  cow  to  market?"  she 
asked.  "  He  said  naught  to  me  'bout  sellin'  a  cow 
to-day." 

"  She's  barren,"  said  Mary.  "  They  sent  her  four 
times  to  the  bull.  I've  milked  her  nearly  dry  now.  It 
does  seem  hard,  doesn't  it?  She  was  so  quiet.  But 
I'm  afraid  she's  no  good  to  us." 

She  had  been  taking  off  her  hat  as  she  spoke,  never 
appreciating  the  significance  of  what  she  said  when,  in 
a  moment,  she  became  conscious  of  Mrs.  Peverell's 
silence  and  swiftly  turned  round. 

She  was  standing  quite  motionless  with  one  hand 
resting  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  staring  out  of  the  win- 
dow at  the  departing  beast,  yet  seeing  nothing,  for, 
with  a  searching  steadfastness,  her  eyes  were  looking 
inwards. 

For  a  moment  Mary's  presence  of  mind  had  left 
her.  She  had  swayed  in  movement,  half  coming  for- 
ward when  indecision  had  arrested  her.  It  might  not 
be  that  her  thoughts  were  what  Mary  supposed.  To 
comfort  her  for  them  if  they  were  not  there  was  only 
to  put  them  in  her  mind. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  she  inquired  tenta- 
tively. 

224 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  I  be  thinkin',"  said  Mrs.  Peverell,  "  if  he  gets  a 
good  price  for  that  cow  we'd  have  a  new  lot  o'  bricks 
laid  down  in  that  wash-house.  There  be  holes  there  a 
body  might  fall  over  in  the  dark." 

A  thousand  times  more  bitter  was  this  than  the  truth, 
for  still  she  stood  staring  inwards  with  her  thoughts 
and  still  standing  there,  with  her  hand  on  the  back  of 
the  chair  and  her  eyes  gazing  through  the  window, 
Mary  had  left  her  and  gone  upstairs. 


VII 

SOON  after  John  was  born,  there  had  come  a  let- 
ter from  Hannah  saying  that  she  and  Fanny 
were  going  to  stay  with  friends  in  Yorkshire 
and  on  their  way  intended  to  visit  her  whether  she 
liked  it  or  not. 

"  Every  one  knows  we're  going  to  Yorkshire,"  she 
had  written,  "  so  they  won't  guess  we've  broken  the 
journey." 

Mary  smiled.  Almost  it  was  unbelievable  to  her 
now  that  once  she  herself  had  thought  like  that.  Abso- 
lutely and  actually  unreal  it  seemed  to  her  now  that  the 
human  body  could  so  be  led  and  persuaded  by  the 
thoughts  of  its  mind. 

"  Come,"  she  wrote  back.  "  We  shall  be  proud  to 
see  you." 

j"  Proud !  "  said  Hannah,  reading  that.  "  It  almost 
seems  as  if  she  meant  to  say  she  was  proud  of  herself. 
I  know  she's  not  ashamed  —  but  proud  ?  " 

"  P'r'aps  that's  what  she  does  mean,"  said  Fanny. 
"  Though  without  love,  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  she's  got 
anything  to  be  proud  about" 

Sharply  Hannah  looked  at  Fanny,  for  since  these 
events  had  happened  in  the  square,  white  house,  there 
had  grown  a  keener  glance  in  the  quiet  nature  of 
Hannah's  eyes. 

226 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  Don't  tell  me,  Fanny,"  she  whispered,  "  don't  tell 
me  you'd  go  and  do  the  same?  " 

"  I'd  do  anything  for  love!  "  exclaimed  Fanny  hys- 
terically. "Anything  I'd  do  —  but  it  would  have  to 
be  for  love." 

Hannah  went  away  to  her  room  to  pack,  considering 
how  swiftly  the  rupture  of  the  moral  code  can  break 
down  the  power  of  principle. 

"  Fanny  was  never  like  that  before,"  she  muttered 
as  she  gathered  her  things.  "  At  least  she  would  never 
have  said  it.  Mary's  done  more  harm  than  ever  she 
knows.  Poor  Mary!  She  can't  really  be  proud  — 
that's  only  her  pride." 

Yet  proud  indeed  they  found  she  was.  At  the  end 
of  the  red  brick  path  leading  up  to  the  house  between 
the  beds  now  filled  with  wallflowers,  she  greeted  them 
with  her  baby  in  her  arms.  This  was  her  challenge. 
So  they  must  accept  her.  It  was  not  to  be  first  herself 
as  though  nothing  had  happened  and  then  her  child  as 
though  what  must  be,  must  be  borne  with.  It  was 
they  two  or  never,  sisters  though  they  might  be,  would 
she  wish  to  see  them. 

Her  first  thought,  as  they  stepped  out  of  the  village 
fly  that  brought  them,  was  how  old  and  pinched  and 
worn  they  looked.  For  youth  now  had  come  back  to 
her  with  the  youth  she  carried  in  her  arms.  Thirty 
she  was  then,  yet  felt  a  child  beside  them.  For  one 
instant  at  the  sight  of  her  her  heart  ached  for  Fanny. 
Fanny,  she  knew,  was  the  one  whom  the  sight  of  her 
child  would  hurt  the  most.  But  the  contact  of  greet- 

227 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

ing,  the  lending  him  to  them  for  their  arms  to  hold, 
deep  though  her  heart  was  filled  with  pity  for  them,  in 
that  moment  there  was  yet  the  deeper  welling  of  her 
pride. 

He  won  them,  as  well  she  knew  he  would.  In  Han- 
nah's arms,  he  looked  up  with  his  deep,  black  eyes  into 
hers  and  made  bubbles  with  his  lips.  No  woman  could 
have  resisted  him  and  she,  who  never  would  have  child 
of  her  own,  clung  to  him  in  a  piteous  weakness  of  emo- 
tion. 

Fanny  stood  by,  with  jerking  laughter  to  hide  her 
eagerness,  muttering  — "  Let  me  have  him,  Hannah. 
Let  me  take  him  a  moment  now." 

And  when  in  turn  she  held  him,  then  above  Mary's 
pride  that  already  had  had  its  fill,  there  rose  the  con- 
sciousness of  all  her  sister  was  suffering.  Twitching 
with  emotion  were  Fanny's  lips  as  she  kissed  him. 
Against  that  thin  breast  of  hers  she  held  him  fast  as 
tfiough  she  felt  for  him  to  give  her  the  sense  of  life. 
Not  even  a  foolish  word  such  as  Hannah  had  mur- 
mured in  his  ears  was  there  in  her  heart  to  say  to  him. 
It  was  life  she  was  holding  so  close ;  life  that  had  never 
been  given  her  to  touch;  life,  even  borrowed  like  this, 
that  had  the  power  to  swell  the  sluggish  race  of  her 
blood  to  flooding;  life  that  stung  and  hurt  and  smarted 
in  her  eyes,  yet  made  her  feel  she  was  a  woman 
in  whom  the  purpose  of  being  might  yet  be  ful- 
filled. 

Unable  any  longer  to  bear  the  sight  of  that,  Mary 
turned  away  into  the  house  to  prepare  their  coming. 

228 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

John,  she  left  in  Fanny's  arms,  having  no  heart  to  rob 
her  of  him  then. 

'They've  come,"  she  whispered  to  Mrs.  Peverell. 
"  They've  come." 

"  Well  ?  "  she  inquired.     "  Was  it  to  shame  'ee  ?  " 
For  answer  Mary  took  her  by  the  arm  and  led  her 
to  the  window. 

"  Look,"  she  said,  and  pointed  out  over  the  bowl  of 
daffodils  on  the  window  sill,  down  the  red  brick  path 
to  the  gate  in  the  oak  palings.  And  that  which  Mrs. 
Peverell  beheld  was  the  sight  of  two  women,  no  longer 
young,  lost  to  all  sense  of  foolishness  in  their  behavior, 
emotionalized  beyond  control,  swept  beyond  self-crit- 
icism by  a  thing,  all  young  with  life,  that  kicked  its  bare 
legs  and  crowed  and  bubbled  at  its  lips,  then  lying  still, 
lay  looking  at  them  with  great  eyes  of  wisdom  as 
though  in  wonder  at  their  folly. 

They  stayed  till  kter  that  afternoon,  then  caught  an 
evening  train  to  Manchester.  Mary  travelled  a  mile 
with  them  in  the  old  fly,  then  set  out  to  walk  home 
alone. 

"  Don't  tire  yourself,"  said  Hannah,  leaning  out  of 
the  window,  as  they  drove  away.  "  You  must  still 
take  care." 

"  Tire  myself?  "  Mary  cried  back.  "  I  don't  feel  as 
if  I  could  ever  be  tired  again." 

And  still  leaning  out  of  the  window,  watching  her 
with  her  firm  stride  as  she  disappeared  into  the  wood, 
Hannah  knew  their  sister  had  found  a  nearer  stream 
to  the  heart  of  life  than  ever  that  which  flowed  through 
Bridnorth. 


VIII 

DAYS,  months  and  years  went  by  and  with 
each  moment  of  them,  Mary  gave  out  of  her* 
self  the  light  of  her  ideals  for  that  green 
bough  to  grow  in. 

Still  as  ever,  she  continued  with  her  work  on  the 
farm,  one  indeed  of  them  now,  and  when  he  could 
walk,  took  John  with  her  to  fetch  the  cows,  exacting 
patience  from  him  while  he  sat  there  in  the  stalls  beside 
her  watching  her  milk. 

"  We  have  to  work,  John,"  she  said.  "  You  and  I 
have  to  work.  I  shall  never  disturb  you  when  you're 
plowing  or  dropping  the  seeds  in  the  ground.  Work's 
a  holy  thing,  John.  Do  you  know  that?  You 
wouldn't  come  and  disturb  me  while  I  was  saying  my 
prayers,  would  you  ?  " 

Solemnly  John  shook  his  head.  He  knew  too  well 
he  always  held  his  breath,  because  then  she  had  told 
him  God  was  in  the  room. 

"  Is  God  in  the  shed  here  now,  while  you're  milk- 
ing ?  "  he  asked. 

She  nodded  an  affirmative  to  give  him  the  impres- 
sion that  so  close  God  was  she  dared  not  speak  aloud. 

"  Does  He  get  thirsty  when  He  sees  all  that  milk  in 
the  pail?" 

230 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

She  bit  her  lips  from  laughter  and  shook  her  head 
again.  That  was  a  moment  when  many  a  mother 
would  have  taken  him  in  her  arms  for  the  charm  he 
had.  She  would  not  spoil  him  so.  She  would  not 
let  him  think  he  said  quaint  things  and  so  for  quaint- 
ness'  sake  or  the  attention  he  won  by  them,  set  out  his 
childish  wits  to  gain  approval.  Nothing  should  he 
wish  to  gain.  All  that  he  gave  of  himself  he"  must 
give  without  thought  of  its  reward. 

"  God's  never  hungry  or  thirsty,  except  through  us," 
she  said.  "  God  is  in  pain  when  we're  in  pain.  He's 
happy  when  we're  happy.  Everything  we  feel  is  what 
God  is  feeling  because  He's  everywhere  and  close  to 
all  of  us." 

John's  eyes  cast  downwards  to  the  bucket  where  the 
milk  was  frothing  white. 

"  He's  feeling  thirsty  now  then,"  said  he  medita- 
tively. 

"I've  no  doubt  He  is,"  said  Mary.  "But  He 
knows  the  milk  doesn't  belong  to  Him.  He  knows  the 
milk  belongs  to  Mr.  Peverell  and  Mrs.  Peverell  will 
give  Him  some  at  tea-time." 

For  a  long  while  John  thought  over  this.  The  milk 
hissed  into  the  pail  as  Mary  watched  him  with  her 
cheek  against  the  still,  warm  flank. 

"  What  is  it,  John?  "  she  asked  presently.  "  What 
are  you  thinking?  " 

"  I  feel  so  sorry  for  God,"  said  he. 

"  Always  feel  that,"  she  whispered,  seizing  eagerly 
the  odd  turn  of  his  mind.  "  He  wants  your  pity  as 

231 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

well  as  your  love,  little  John.  He  wants  the  best  you 
have.  He's  always  in  you.  He's  never  far  away. 
And  if  sometimes  it  seems  that  He  is,  then  come  and 
give  your  best  to  me.  I  promise  you  I'll  give  it  back 
to  Him." 

Tenderly,  by  his  heart  she  led  him,  bringing  him 
ever  on  tiptoe  to  every  wonder  in  life,  whilst  all  in 
Nature  he  found  wonderful  through  her  eyes.  Supply- 
ing herself  with  everything  in  literature  she  could  find 
on  subjects  of  natural  history,  recalling  thereby  such 
memories  as  she  had  of  bird's  nesting  and  woodland 
adventures  with  her  brother,  it  was  these  books  she 
read  now.  They  held  her  interest  as  never  a  storybook 
had  held  it  those  days  in  Bridnorth  when  the  old  coach 
rumbled  up  the  cobbled  street.  John  caught  the  vital 
energy  of  her  excitement  whenever  in  the  fields  and 
hedges  she  discovered  the  very  documents  of  Nature 
she  had  read  of  on  the  printed  page. 

No  eggs  were  allowed  to  be  taken  from  the  nests. 
No  collection  of  things  was  made. 

"  They're  all  ours  where  they  are,"  she  would  say. 
"  Men  who  study  these  things  to  write  about  them  in 
the  books  I  read,  they're  the  only  ones  who  can 
take  them.  'They  give  them  all  back  again  in  their 
books." 

He  did  not  understand  this,  but  learnt  obedience. 

Time  came  when  he  himself  could  climb  a  tree  and 
peer  within  a  nest.  Down  on  the  ground  below,  Mary 
would  stand  with  heart  dry  on  her  lips,  yet  bidding  him 
no  more  than  care  of  the  places  where  he  put  his  feet. 

232 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Never  should  he  know  fear,  she  determined,  never 
through  her. 

So  she  brought  him  up  and  to  the  life  of  the  farm 
as  well.  With  Mr.  Peverell  he  spent  many  of  his  days. 
In  the  hayfields  and  at  harvest  time,  the  measure  of 
his  joys  was  full.  He  knew  the  scent  of  good  hay 
from  bad  before  ever  he  could  handle  a  rake  to  gather 
it.  He  saw  the  crops  thrashed.  He  saw  them  sown. 
In  all  the  procession  of  those  years,  the  coming  and 
going,  the  sowing  and  harvest,  the  receiving  and  the 
giving  of  life  became  the  statutory  values  of  his  world. 

And  there  beside  him,  ever  at  his  listening  ear,  was 
Mary  to  give  him  the  simple  purpose  of  his  young 
ideals. 

He  never  knew  he  learnt.  He  never  realized  the  soil 
he  grew  in.  Up  to  the  light  he  came,  the  light  she 
gave  him  from  the  emotion  of  her  own  ideals ;  up  to 
the  light  like  a  sapling  tree,  well  planted  in  the  wood, 
with  space  and  air  to  stretch  its  branches  to  the  sun. 

"  Mummy,  what's  death?  "  he  asked  her  one  day  as 
he  sat  with  her  while  she  milked  the  cows.  "  What's 
death?" 

For  a  long  time  she  continued  with  her  milking  in 
silence.  She  had  taught  him  never  to  bother  for  an 
answer  to  his  questions  and  only  to  ask  again  when  he 
made  sure  his  question  had  not  been  heard.  Now  he 
leant  up  against  the  stall  waiting  in  patience,  watching 
her  face.  Peeping  at  her  then  when  making  sure  she 
had  not  heard,  he  asked  once  more. 

"  Mummy,  what's  death?    Is  that  too  soon? " 
233 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

She  smiled  and  pressed  his  hand  with  her  own  that 
was  warm  and  wet  with  milk. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  that,  John?  "  she  inquired. 

"  There  were  two  moles  got  chopped  with  the  hay 
knives.  I  saw  them.  They  were  lying  in  a  lump  and 
all  bloody  and  still.  Is  that  death  ?  Mr.  Peverell  said 
they  was  quite  dead.  Is  death  being  quite  dead  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  and  went  back  to  her  milking; 
still  for  a  while  in  silence. 

These  were  moments  she  feared,  yet  had  no  real 
dread  of,  seeing  they  had  to  be.  Here  was  a  young 
twig  seeking  to  the  light,  a  young  twig  that  one  day 
would  become  a  branch  and  must  be  set  in  surest  pur- 
pose or  in  the  full  growth,  sooner  or  later,  would  reveal 
its  stunted  lines  and  the  need  there  had  been  for  vision 
in  its  training. 

"  Death's  not  the  same  as  being  dead,"  she  said  pres- 
ently. "  Nothing  is  quite  dead."  She  stripped  her 
cow,  the  last  that  evening  and,  putting  the  pail  aside 
from  long  habits  of  precaution,  she  turned  and  took 
both  his  hands  in  hers. 

"  Do  you  know  what  a  difficult  question  you've  asked 
me,  John  ?  "  she  said. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  You  have,  and  awfully  badly  I  want  to  answer  it. 
I  could  quite  easily  if  you  were  a  little  bit  older.  I'm 
so  afraid  I  can't  make  it  simple  enough  for  you  to 
understand  now.  And  if  I  told  you  something  you 
didn't  understand,  you'd  make  your  own  understand- 
ing of  it  and  it  might  be  all  wrong." 

234 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  Only  want  to  know  about  the  moles,"  said  he. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  what's  happened  to  the  moles 
happens  to  people." 

"When?" 

"  Oh,  all  sorts  of  times.  They  get  caught  in  the 
mowing  knives." 

"  But  can't  they  tie  themselves  up  with  bits  of  rag 
and  make  it  all  right  and  stop  the  blooding?  " 

"  Not  when  it  cuts  into  their  hearts,  they  can't. 
Even  a  whole  tablecloth  couldn't  stop  the  bleeding 
then." 

"  What  happens  then  ?  " 

"  They  get  all  still  like  the  moles." 

"  And  are  they  dead  then?  " 

"  No,  that's  where  it's  so  difficult  to  explain.  If  I 
were  to  say  —  that's  death,  but  they're  not  dead  — 
how  could  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Couldn't,"  he  agreed,  and  leant  his  head  up 
against  her  cheek,  sympathizing  with  her  diffi- 
culties. "  I've  always  thought  death  was  being  quite 
dead." 

"  Nothing's  quite  dead,"  she  repeated,  half  to  her- 
self, as  though  by  the  reiteration  of  that  she  might 
capture  out  of  the  void  the  inspiration  for  what  she 
wanted  to  say. 

"  Do  you  remember  what  I  told  you  about  God?  " 
she  asked  suddenly. 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"  Well,  when  things  go  quite  still,  they've  gone  back 
to  God.  They  can't  feel  thirsty  then,  or  tired  or  un- 

235 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

happy.     They  haven't  got  any  bodies  to  feel  tired  or 
thirsty  with." 

"  But  what  does  God  do  with  all  the  dead  things  and 
people  ?  " 

Mary  clasped  her  courage  and  went  on. 

"  He  just  lets  them  rest,"  she  said,  "  rest  till  they're 
ready  to  bear  being  thirsty  and  tired  again." 

"  Were  the  moles  so  thirsty  or  so  tired  that  they 
couldn't  bear  it  any  more  ?  " 

11  They  may  have  been.  You  can  never  know  when 
God  chooses  to  take  you  back  again.  Life,  the  thing 
that  makes  you  move  about  and  laugh  and  run,  the 
thing  that  makes  you  able  to  bear  being  thirsty, 
you  can  give  that  back  to  God  just  when  you  feel 
strongest." 

"  What  would  you  give  it  back  for?  " 

"  Something  that  was  worth  while.  Suppose  you 
and  I  were  out  for  a  walk  together  and  I  fell  in  the 
river  and  I  couldn't  swim  and  I  was  nearly  going  to  be 
drowned  and  be  quite  still,  because  when  you're  under 
the  water  you  can't  breathe  and  that's  another  thing 
that  makes  you  go  quite  still,  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  I'd  jump  in  and  I'd  swim  and  I'd  take  you  in  my 
arms  and  I'd  swim  with  my  legs  and  I'd  get  to  the  bank 
and  then  I'd  pull  you  out  and  I'd  call  to  Mr.  Peverell." 

He  felt  the  tightening  of  her  arm  about  him. 

"  But  supposing  I  was  too  heavy  and  yet  you  still 
held  on  and  I  dragged  you  down  under  the  water  with 
me  and  you  couldn't  breathe  and  became  quite  still  — 
then  you'd  have  given  the  thing  that  had  made  you  run 

236 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

to  the  bank  and  jump  into  the  water,  you'd  have  given 
it  back  to  God." 

"  That  would  have  been  worth  while,  Mummy,"  said 
he. 

"Would  it,  John?" 

"  Well,  what  would  have  been  the  good  of  going  on 
looking  for  birds'  eggs  or  making  the  hay  or  getting  up 
in  the  morning  if  you'd  been  quite  still?  " 

"  So  I  fill  your  life,  do  I?  "  she  whispered. 

"  No  fun  if  you  were  like  the  moles,"  said  he  without 
sentiment. 

And  this,  she  thought  of  a  sudden,  is  what  so  many 
women  are  denied,  this  actual  virtue  of  being  the  very 
essence  of  the  whole  world  to  one  little,  living  body 
that  had  not  a  lover's  sentiments  and  passions  to  urge 
upon  its  mind,  but  stood  alone  absorbed,  contained  in 
its  beliefs. 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  gave  it  back  to  God  for  some- 
thing like  that  that  seemed  worth  while,  it  would  not 
be  because  you  were  tired  then  —  would  it  ?  " 

"No  —  I  shouldn't  want  no  rest.  Shouldn't  want 
to  be  quite  still  for  long." 

She  lifted  him  up  swiftly  into  her  arms,  a  sudden 
sight  of  him  quite  still  chilling  through  her  blood. 

"If  you  gave  it  back,  generously,  like  that,  my 
darling,"  she  whispered,  "  He  might  accept  it  like  Mr. 
Peverell  always  does  when  you  give  him  an  apple  out 
of  his  own  orchard.  You  always  find  it  on  your  plate 
again  next  morning." 

"  Has  God  a  beard  like  Mr.  Peverell?  "  he  asked. 


IX 

IT  was  when  John  came  to  the  age  of  eleven  that 
Mary  first  learnt  the  pangs  of  jealousy. 
A  neighboring  farm  came  into  the  market  one 
Michaelmas  and  was  bought  by  a  young  farmer  bring- 
ing a  wife  and  three  children  to  the  house  that  lay  in 
the  trees  at  the  bottom  of  the  Highfield  meadow.  No 
one  knew  why  it  was  called  Highfield,  that  meadow. 
It  had  been  so  called  for  centuries,  yet  it  lay  low.  A 
brook  ran  through  it.  Some  winters  it  lay  under 
water.  A  kind  of  rush  grew  thick  in  the  grass  in  one 
corner  under  the  poplar  trees.  Every  year  it  was  put 
down  for  hay.  Every  year,  so  damp  the  soil,  it  grew 
a  generous  crop. 

Farms  so  close  together  as  Mr.  Kemp's  and  Mr. 
Peverell's  lend  each  other  a  helping  hand.  There  is 
only  a  friendly  rivalry  between  those  whose  hearts  are 
in  the  soil.  The  spirit  of  giving  maintains  if  it  does 
not  rule.  Mr.  Peverell's  crops  were  generally  better  to 
his  way  of  thinking  than  any  one  else's.  But  he  loved 
the  sight  of  a  well  grown  field  nevertheless.  He  wished 
no  harm  but  the  best  to  any  man  who  tilled  and  cleansed 
his  land. 

"  Cultivation,"  he  said,  "  that's  taking  side  wi'  Na- 
ture. Weeds  is  folly  and  Nature  can't  abide  that.  A 
field  run  fallow  makes  my  stomach  turn." 

238 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

It  was  at  the  haymaking  in  the  Highfield  meadow, 
when  the  womenfolk,  and  at  lifting  time  the  men  as 
well,  came  in  to  help,  that  John  first  met  Lucy  Kemp. 

She  was  a  year  younger  than  he;  dark  haired  with 
solemn,  wondering  eyes  that  gazed  with  steady  glances 
at  the  world. 

In  the  midst  of  his  frolics  in  the  new  cut  hay,  John 
came  suddenly  before  those  eyes,  not  knowing  what  he 
saw,  ceased  from  his  antics  in  a  swift  arrest. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  ?  "  he  asked  with  uncere- 
monious directness. 

"  Looking  at  you,"  said  she. 

He  glanced  down  at  his  clothes  to  see  if  anything 
was  wrong. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  me  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  I  like  you,"  she  replied. 

"Why?" 

"  Cos  you  can  stop  playing  all  quick,  like  this,  when 
you  play." 

She  must  have  had  some  vague  conception  of  what 
she  meant.  He  must  have  had  some  vague  conception 
of  what  he  understood.  It  was  the  first  time  it  had 
ever  been  made  apparent  to  him  that  any  one  could  like 
him  as  well  as  his  mother. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  play?  "  he  asked. 

"  I've  got  a  headache,"  she  replied. 

"What's  that?" 

"A  pain  — all  over  here!"  She  laid  her  hands 
across  her  forehead. 

"Does  it  hurt?" 

239 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

He  gave  sympathy  in  his  voice  at  once. 

"  Keeps  on  frobbing,"  said  she. 

"  Let  God  feel  it  frob  and  come  and  play,"  he  sug- 
gested with  greater  wisdom  than  he  knew. 

That  had  to  be  explained  to  her.  They  sat  down  in 
the  hay,  the  first  man  in  him  explaining  the  mysteries 
of  life  to  the  first  woman  in  her.  Mary  found  them, 
fast  friends,  sitting  together  behind  a  high  cock  of  hay. 

"  I  thought  I'd  lost  you,  John,"  she  said,  and  when 
he  did  not  look  up  on  the  instant,  knew  she  had  indeed 
lost  something  of  him  she  could  never  find  again.  No 
longer  was  she  the  only  woman  in  his  world.  In  a 
strange  and  unexpected  moment  he  had  found  some 
one  he  could  turn  to  to  hide  his  pain  if  she  became 
quite  still  like  the  moles. 

They  met  often  after  that  day.  In  a  little  while  they 
became  inseparable. 

"  Young  things  must  have  young  things  to  play 
with,"  Mary  told  herself.  It  was  Nature.  They  never 
reared  young  calves  alone  on  the  farm.  Always  they 
had  companions. 

"  They  grows  better,"  said  Mr.  Peverell.  "  Young 
and  young.  It  comes  that  way." 

So  she  stilled  her  heart  from  painful  beating.  But 
one  day  Mrs.  Peverell  pointed  out  those  two  together  in 
the  fields  and  said  — 

"  A  love  child  they  say  takes  easy  to  love.  If  that 
doant  please  'ee,  'ee  must  stop  it  soon." 

"  Why  shouldn't  it  please  me  ?  "  she  asked  and  her 
heart  was  trembling  in  swift  flutterings  that  were  not 

240 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

pulses  in  her  breast,  but  were  like  wings  beating,  dis- 
turbing the  air  she  breathed. 

"  Well,  she  be  just  an  ordinary  child,  like  one  of  us, 
and  if  John  stays  on  the  farm  and  one  day  takes  it 
after  Mr.  Peverell,  as  I  doant  mind  tellin'  'ee  Mr. 
Peverell  means  'en  to  take  it  if  he  likes  the  work,  then 
he'll  wed  wi'  her,  you  mark  my  words  for  it." 

Mary  took  the  hand  with  its  knuckles  far  more  knot- 
ted now  and  held  it  for  comfort  against  her  breast. 

"  You  have  been  good  to  me,"  she  muttered  thickly. 
"  I  have  never  thought  till  now  he  could  mean  to  leave 
the  farm  to  John." 

"  His  name's  in  the  Bible,"  said  Mrs.  Peverell. 
"  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  know  what  that  means  to  you. 
But  I  never  thought  you  meant  it  so  practically  as  that. 
If  John  does  take  on  the  farm,  why  shouldn't  he  marry 
Lucy?  Wouldn't  that  be  right?  Wouldn't  that  be 
the  very  best  ?  " 

"  I  thought  by  the  way  'ee  looked  at  them  'ee  mind 
was  all  against  it.  I  thought  'ee'd  got  greater  pros- 
pects for  him  than  that.  She's  only  an  ordinary  child, 
I  says,  and  that's  all  she  is.  I  thought  it  'ud  upset  'ee 
plans  for  'en." 

"  My  plans,"  said  Mary.  "  They're  only  for  his 
happiness  and  the  best  that's  in  him.  I  can't  have  him 
always,  can  I  ?  Not  always  to  myself  ?  "  She  turned 
her  eyes  across  the  field  to  where  they  stood  together. 

"  She's  come  —  with  her  big  eyes,"  she  whispered 
and  she  walked  away. 


PHASE  V 


IT  was  a  still  hot  day  at  the  end  of  the  month  of 
July  in  the  following  year.  Vast  mountain 
ranges  of  cumulus  clouds  too  heavy  on  the  hori- 
zon to  sweep  across  the  sky  with  the  storm  they  prom- 
ised hung  sullen  and  low  in  masses  of  pale  purple 
rimmed  with  golden  pink.  Rain  was  sadly  wanted  all 
the  country  round.  Only  the  Highfield  meadow  at 
Yarningdale  was  lush  and  green.  The  cows  were  there 
grazing  on  the  aftermath. 

With  her  sewing,  Mary  had  come  down  to  the  field 
an  hour  or  more  before  there  was  need  to  drive  them 
in.  John  was  playing  with  Lucy  down  the  stream. 
She  could  hear  their  voices  in  and  out  of  the  willows. 
They  were  like  dryad  and  faun,  laughing  together. 
His  voice  was  as  a  lute  to  Mary.  She  listened  to  it 
and  to  the  very  words  he  said,  as  she  would  have  lis- 
tened to  a  faun  playing  on  his  pipe,  half  bewitched  by 
it,  half  tricked  to  laughter  and  to  joy  that  was  scarcely 
of  this  world. 

"  If  I'm  the  captain,"  she  heard  him  saying,  "you 
have  to  dance  whether  you  like  it  or  not." 

Claude  Duval  and  Treasure  Island !  Both  flung  to- 
gether in  the  melting  pot  of  his  fancy. 

She  peered  down  the  field  through  the  trunks  of  the 
245 


pollarded  willows  and  saw  a  dryad  dancing  before  a 
faun  sitting  cross-legged  in  the  grass.  A  fay-looking 
sight  it  was  in  the  hazy  mist  of  that  sunshine.  With 
unsteady  balance,  Lucy  swayed  in  and  out  of  the  tree 
shadows,  alternately  a  thing  of  darkness  and  a  thing  of 
light.  And  there  below  her  in  the  grass  he  sat,  with 
his  mop  of  hair  and  his  profile  cut  sharp  against  the 
dark  trunk  of  a  willow  tree,  looking  to  Mary  who  saw 
him  with  the  mist  in  his  eyes  like  pagan  Nature,  back 
to  the  times  of  Pan.  Herself  as  well,  as  there  she 
watched,  she  felt  she  could  have  danced  for  him. 

Was  that  what  love  was  —  the  thing  that  she  had 
never  known?  Could  this  be  it,  this  godlike  power 
that  Nature  lent  to  man  to  make  a  woman  dance  for 
him,  and,  as  she  danced,  trick  all  his  senses  till  he  was 
no  more  than  man,  when  Nature  snatched  her  loan 
away  and  with  Pan's  laughter  caught  the  woman  in 
her  arms  and  vanished  in  the  trees  and  hid  herself  ? 

That  moment  then  she  seemed  to  see  it  so  and  with  a 
later  vision  beheld  the  woman  stepping  out  from  under- 
neath the  shadows  of  the  wood,  leading  a  faun,  so 
young  his  feet  seemed  scarcely  touching  the  grass  he 
walked  upon. 

Her  sewing  fluttered  to  her  lap.  In  that  midsummer 
heat,  her  eyes  half  closed,  then  opened,  startled  at  the 
sound  of  solid  footsteps  by  her  side.  She  looked  up 
and  there  stood  Liddiard,  his  hat  in  his  hand,  a  nervous 
smile  upon  his  lips.  She  was  too  taken  unawares  to 
fathom  them. 

"  Am  I  dreaming?  "  she  muttered. 
246 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  You  were  asleep,"  said  he. 

"  But  this  isn't  dreaming?  " 

"  No  —  you're  awake  now." 

"Why—?  What  is  it?  Why  have  you  come 
here?" 

"  To  see  you." 

"After  all  these  years?" 

"  Twelve  of  them." 

He  sat  down  on  the  grass  a  little  apart  from  her, 
watching  her  face. 

;<  You  look  very  little  older,  Mary.  There  isn't  a 
gray  hair  in  your  head.  I've  plenty." 

"My  hair's  nondescript,"  she  replied,  still  in  an 
amaze.  "  It  takes  a  long  tirre  to  go  gray.  Why  have 
you  come  here?  Did  they  tell  you  at  Bridnorth  where 
I  was?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  why  have  you  come?  " 

"  I  told  you,  to  see  you." 

"  But  what  about  ?" 

He  smiled  again  as  he  watched  her. 

"  You  haven't  changed  at  all,  Mary.  The  same 
directness ;  the  same  unimpressionable  woman,  the  same 
insensitiveness  to  the  delicate  word.  Does  it  give  you 
no  pleasure  at  all  to  think  I  should  come  back  after  all 
these  years  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  Was  I  unimpressionable  once?  "  she  asked  quietly, 
and  took  no  notice  of  the  latter  part  of  his  sentence. 

He  looked  away  across  the  Highfield  meadow  and 
there  between  the  willow  trees  he  saw  the  mop  of  hair, 

247 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

the  sharp  cut  profile,  the  little  figure  half  hidden  by  the 
grass,  looking  as  though  he  grew  out  and  was  part  of 
the  very  earth  itself  he  sat  on. 

Liddiard  looked  back  at  Mary. 

"  Is  that  him  ?  "  he  muttered. 

She  nodded  her  head  and  then  of  a  sudden  a  fear, 
nameless  and  unreasonable,  shook  her  through  all  her 
body. 

"  You  came  to  see  him,"  she  whispered.  "  You 
came  because  of  him.  Didn't  you?  Didn't  you?" 

"  How  did  you  know?  "  he  asked. 

"  How  did  I  know  ?  "  Her  throat  gave  out  a  sound 
like  laughter ;  a  mirthless  sound  that  frightened  her  and 
awed  him.  "  Shouldn't  I  know,  better  than  him ;  bet- 
ter even  than  you  ?  Wouldn't  I  know  everything  that 
touches  him,  touches  him  near  and  touches  him  far 
away?  What  do  you  want  to  see  him  for?  He's 
nothing  to  do  with  you  —  nothing !  " 

"  I  know  that,  Mary.  He's  yours.  He's  nothing  to 
do  with  me ;  but  mightn't  I  have  something  to  do  with 
him?" 

Fear  sickened  in  her  throat.  She  wet  her  lips  and 
gathered  her  sewing  from  her  lap  as  though  she  might 
run  away ;  then  laid  it  down  again. 

"  Say  what  you  mean,"  she  said  quickly.  "  I  don't 
want  delicate  words.  You're  right.  I  never  did. 
They  break  against  me  and  in  their  pieces  mean  noth- 
ing. I  want  the  words  I  can  understand.  What  do 
you  mean  you  might  be  something  to  him?'  What 
could  you  be?  He's  mine,  all  mine!  I  made  him — : 

248 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

not  you.     I  know  I  made  him.     I  meant  to.     Every 
moment  I  meant  to.     It  was  just  a  moment  of  passion 
to  you,  a  release  of  your  emotions.     It  was  ease  it  gave 
you  —  I  can't  help  how  I  speak  now  —  it  was  ease! 
It  brought  me  the  most  wonderful  pain  in  the  world. 
You  didn't  want  him!     In  that  letter  you  wrote  you 
talked    about   the    consequences   of   passion!    Conse- 
quences!    My  God!     Is  he  no  more  than  a  conse- 
quence !     A  thing  to  be  avoided !     A  thing,  as  you  sug- 
gested, to  be  hidden  away !     I  made  him,  I  tell  you  — 
I  meant  to  make  him!     I  gave  every  thought  in  my 
mind  and  every  pulse  in  my  body  to  make  him  what  he 
is  while  you  were  scheming  in  yours  how  the  conse- 
quences of  passion  might  be  averted.     What  is  the 
something  you  could  be  to  him  now  after  all  these 
years?     Where  is  the  something  any  man  can  be  to 
the  child  a  woman  brings  into  the  world?     Show  me 
the  man  who,  in  such  relationship  as  ours,  will  long 
for  his  child  to  be  born,  will  give  his  passion,  not  for 
relief,  but  in  full  intent  to  make  that  child  his  own. 
Show  me  the  man  outside  the  convenience  of  the  laws 
that  he  has  made  who  will  face  the  shame  and  ignominy 
he  has  made  for  himself  and  before  all  the  world  claim 
in  his  arms  the  thing  he  meant  to  create  —  then  I'll 
admit  he  has  something  to  do  with  the  child  he  was  the 
father    of.     Father!     What    delicate    word    that    is! 
There's  a  word  that  breaks  into  a  thousand  little  pieces 
against  my  heart.     I  don't  know  it!     I  don't  under- 
stand it!     I  pick  up  the  pieces  and  look  at  them  and 
they  mean  nothing!     Have  you  come  after  all  these 

249 


JHE  GREEN  BOUGH 

years  to  tell  me  you're  his  father,  because  if  you  have, 
you're  talking  empty  words  to  me." 

A  little  shout  of  laughter  fluttered  down  to  them 
through  the  still  air.  She  never  heard  it.  The  beating 
of  her  heart  was  all  too  loud.  Scarcely  knowing  what 
she  did,  she  picked  up  her  sewing  and  went  on  with 
her  work,  while  Liddiard  stared  before  him  down  the 
field. 

"  I  suppose  you  imagine,"  he  said  presently,  "  I  sup- 
pose you  imagine  I  don't  feel  the  justice  of  every  word 
you've  said.  You  think  I'm  incapable  of  it." 

She  made  no  reply  and  he  continued. 

"  I  know  what  you  say  is  quite  true.  I  haven't  come 
here  to  tell  you  I'm  his  father.  I  scarcely  feel  that  I 
am.  If  I  did,  I  wouldn't  thrust  it  on  you.  But  there's 
one  thing  you  don't  count  in  all  you've  said." 

"What's  that?"  she  sharply  asked. 

"  For  all  that  you  made  him,  for  all  the  thoughts  and 
pulses  that  you  gave,  he  stands  alone.  He  is  himself, 
apart  from  you  or  me.  The  world  is  in  front  of  him 
whilst  it's  dropping  behind  us  two." 

Again  she  laid  her  sewing  down.  A  deeper  terror  he 
had  struck  into  her  heart  by  that.  That  was  true. 
She  knew  it  was  true.  The  coming  of  Lucy  into  that 
hayfield  only  the  summer  before  was  proof  that  it  was 
true.  He  stood  alone.  She  had  said  as  much  to  Mrs. 
Peverell  herself.  "  He'll  give  the  best  he  has,"  she 
had  said  in  effect.  "  Perhaps  he'll  leave  the  farm  and 
break  your  heart.  Perhaps  if  I  live,  he'll  break  mine." 
This  was  true.  Whole-heartedly  she  hated  Liddiard 

250 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

for  saying  it.     When  all  her  claims  were  added  up, 
John  still  stood  by  himself  —  alone. 

"  Go  on,"  she  whispered  with  intense  quietness. 
"  Say  everything  you've  got  to  say.  I'm  listening." 

He  looked  about  him  for  reassurance,  doubtful  and 
ill  at  ease  because  of  the  note  in  her  voice,  yet  set  of 
purpose  upon  that  for  which  he  had  come. 

"  I  have  told  my  wife  everything,"  he  began  and 
paused.  She  bowed  her  head  as  he  waited  for  a  sign 
that  she  had  heard. 

"  I  told  her  a  week  ago  to-day.  My  wife  is  now 
forty-seven.  We  have  no  children.  We  can  have 
none.  A  week  ago  to-day  we  were  discussing  that; 
that  I  had  no  one,  no  one  directly  to  whom  I  could 
leave  Wenlock  Hall.  She  knows  what  that  place 
means  to  me.  I  think  you  know  too.  It  was  my 
father's  and  his  father's.  Well,  it  has  been  in  the 
family  for  seven  generations  now.  Each  one  of  us 
has  done  something  to  it  to  improve  it.  In  the  Stuart 
period  one  of  my  ancestors  built  a  chapel.  Before 
then  a  wonderful  tithe  barn  was  built.  It's  one  of  the 
finest  in  England.  The  date  is  on  one  of  the  beams  — 
1618.  The  eldest  son  has  always  inherited.  We've 
never  broken  the  line.  We  were  talking  about  it  the 
other  night.  I  was  an  only  son.  The  property  is  not 
entailed.  The  next  of  kin  is  a  cousin.  He's  the  only 
male  Liddiard.  I'm  not  particularly  fond  of  him,  but 
he's  the  only  Liddiard.  I  should  leave  it  to  him.  My 
wife  was  saying  what  a  pity  it  was.  She  wondered 
whose  fault  it  could  be.  '  I  believe  it  must  be  mine/ 
she  said,  '  and  if  it  is,  what  can  I  do? ' 

251 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

He  paused  again  and  looked  long  at  Mary  whose 
needle  still  with  the  finest  of  precision  was  passing  in 
and  out  of  the  material  in  her  hands. 

"  I  told  her  what  she  could  do,"  he  added  and  met 
Mary's  eyes  as  they  looked  up. 

"  What  was  that  ?  "  she  asked  quietly. 

"  I  told  her  she  could  give  our  child  a  home  and  a 
name,"  said  he,  "  if  you  would  consent  to  let  him  go." 


II 

IT  was  in  Mary's  sensations  as  though,  all  unpre- 
pared, she  had  turned  a  sudden  corner  and  found 
herself  looking  into  an  abyss,  the  darkness  and 
depth  of  which  was  unfathomable.  All  sense  of  bal- 
ance and  equilibrium  seemed  to  leave  her.  She  reeled 
and  was  giddy  in  her  mind.  She  could  have  laughed 
aloud.  Her  mental  stance  upon  the  plane  of  thought 
became  a  negation.  Her  grip  was  gone.  She  was 
floating,  nebulously,  foolishly,  without  power  of  voli- 
tion to  gravitate  herself  to  a  solid  conception  of  any- 
thing. 

He  proposed  to  take  John  away  from  her.  He  was 
suggesting  to  her  by  every  word  he  said  that  it  was 
her  duty  to  John  to  let  him  go.  Not  only  could  she 
laugh  at  the  thought  of  it  —  she  did.  After  all  these 
twelve  years  when  the  whole  of  her  life  and  John's  too 
were  planned  out  like  a  design  upon  a  loom,  needing 
only  the  spinning,  she  was  to  tear  the  whole  fabric  into 
shreds  and  fling  it  away!  It  was  preposterous,  un- 
believable that  he  could  have  thought  it  worth  while  to 
come  to  her  with  such  a  suggestion.  Yet  she  laughed, 
not  because  it  was  so  ludicrous  as  to  be  unbelievable, 
but  because  Fate  had  so  ordered  it  that,  in  a  depth  of 
her  consciousness,  she  knew  he  could  have  done  nothing 
else. 

253 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

From  the  world's  point  of  view  it  was  the  natural 
and  inevitable  sequence  in  an  extraordinary  chain  of 
events.  Many  a  woman  would  be  glad  of  such  an  ad- 
vancement for  her  son.  Most  conceivable  it  was  that 
a  man  should  desire  his  own  flesh  and  blood  to  inherit 
and  carry  on  in  his  name  that  of  which  the  generations 
had  made  him  proud.  All  this  she  realized.  All  this 
was  the  darkness  and  depth  of  the  abyss  into  which  she 
looked. 

But  then  the  sound  of  her  laughter  in  her  ears  gave 
her  hold  again.  More  real  than  all  worldly  consider- 
ations became  the  cruelty  it  was  to  her.  More  real 
even  than  that  was  the  destruction  of  the  ideal  she  had 
cherished  in  her  heart  and  nurtured  and  fed  in  John's. 

His  education  was  to  have  been  the  earth,  the  very 
soil  his  feet  trod,  not  the  riches  that  came  out  of  that 
earth  and  more  than  the  soft  wet  clay,  soiled  the  hands 
of  him  who  touched  them.  It  was  to  give,  not  to  en- 
joy ;  to  labor,  not  to  possess  with  which  she  had  hedged 
him  in  upon  his  road  to  happiness  and  fulfillment. 
These  were  the  realizations  which,  with  the  sound  of 
her  laughter,  gave  her  hold  again. 

She  saw  the  depth  and  darkness  of  that  abyss,  but 
shut  her  eyes  to  it.  In  full  possession  of  herself,  hav- 
ing gained  equilibrium  once  more,  she  turned  upon 
Liddiard  with  a  scorn  he  had  never  seen  in  her. 

"  I'm  forty  now,"  she  said,  "  and  I  don't  think  you'll 
deny  that  I  have  found  and  faced  the  world.  In  your 
sheltered  place  down  there  in  Somerset,  you  can't  main- 
tain that  you  have  met  the  world  —  as  I've  met  it. 

254 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

The  real  things  have  never  threatened  you  to  crush 
your  spirit  or  break  your  courage  as  they  have  mine. 
Setting  up  a  chapel  or  building  a  tithe  barn  aren't  the 
real  things  of  life.  Keeping  your  lawns  cut  and  your 
borders  trimmed  won't  make  England  great  or  set  in 
order  the  vast  forces  of  life  that  govern  us.  Inherit- 
ing isn't  creating,  possession  isn't  power.  You  want 
to  train  my  son  to  the  thought  that  it  is.  For  twelve 
years  I've  trained  his  little  mind  to  the  knowledge  that 
it  isn't.  You  want  him  to  possess  and  enjoy.  I  want 
him  to  labor  and  live.  You  want  him  to  inherit  your 
pride.  I  want  him  to  create  his  own.  Doesn't  it  ever 
occur  to  you  that  since  your  family  established  itself 
in  its  possessions  in  Somersetshire,  it's  been  decaying 
in  purpose,  decaying  in  spirit,  decaying  in  power? 
Doesn't  it  ever  occur  to  you  that  you're  making  no  sur- 
plus of  energy  in  that  house  of  Liddiard,  but  by  means 
of  the  laws  of  inheritance  are  living  upon  a  little  circle 
of  energy  that  goes  round  and  round,  always  dissipat- 
ing itself  with  every  generation,  always  becoming  the 
lesser  instead  of  the  greater;  creating  no  energy  that 
is  new,  only  using  up  that  which  is  old;  setting  up 
chapels  for  itself  and  building  itself  tithe  barns,  always 
for  itself,  never  making  that  energy  really  free  for 
the  whole  world  to  profit  by  ?  " 

Liddiard  stood  staring  at  her  in  amazement.  She 
was  not  talking  with  the  words  of  a  woman.  She  was 
talking  with  the  words  of  a  force,  a  new  force ;  some- 
thing, coming  up  against  which  he  felt  himself  puny 
and  small  and  well-nigh  impotent. 

255 


'You  think  I'm  talking  like  a  street  orator,"  she 
said,  justly  reading  that  look.     "  Very  probably  I  am 
to  you.     I  know  nothing  of  the  social  science,  none  of 
the  facts  for  what  I'm  saying.     I've  never  even  said 
things  like  this  before.     I'm  not  picking  my  words. 
I'm  only  saying  what  I  feel,  what  I  believe  all  women 
are   feeling   in   their   hearts.     One  and   all,    if   their 
thoughts  were  known,  I  believe  they  know  they  have 
contributed  long  enough  to  the  possessive  passions  of 
men.     Long  enough  they've  been  through  the  pains  of 
birth  and  the  greater  pain  of  disappointment  in  their 
sons  in  order  to  give  men  children  to  inherit  the  pos- 
sessions that  are  theirs.     Long  enough  they've  been 
servants,  slaves  even,  to  the  ideals  of  men.     The  laws 
have  been  constructed  to  make  and  keep  them  so.     The 
civilization  of  the  world  has  been  built  up  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  '  get  by  force  and  keep  by  servitude.'     The 
women  who  marry  into  royalty  must  breed  or  they  are 
put  away.     That's  what  we  do  with  the  cows  here  on 
this  farm.     If  they  don't  have  calves  and  give  milk, 
they're  sent  away  to  the  market  and  they're  sold.     But 
do  you  really  think  you  can  keep  women  upon  that 
plane  of  life  forever?     Here,  at  Yarningdale,  I  set  my 
teeth  and  close  my  eyes  when  the  cow  is  driven  away. 
But  do  you  suppose  women  are  getting  for  themselves 
no  more   soul  than  that  beast  has?     Do  you  think 
they're  always  quietly  going  to  be  driven  away?     Do 
you  think  they  merely  want  to  be  stalled  and  well-fed 
for  their  efficient  service?     Do  you  think  with  men  as 
they  are,  making  love  and  passion  a  horror  to  some 

256 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

women  they  marry,  that  we  are  forever  going  to  believe 
they  are  fathers  of  our  children  and  have  supreme 
power  to  teach  them  none  but  their  own  ideals  ?  " 

She  came  a  little  closer  to  him  as  now  they  stood  out 
there  in  the  Highfield  meadow. 

"  I'm  outside  your  laws,"  she  said.  "  You  can't 
touch  me.  I  believe  there  are  countless  women  who 
would  be  as  I  am,  if  they  dared.  I  believe  there  are 
countless  women  who  would  give  all  they  know  to  be 
able  to  train  their  sons  to  their  own  ideals  as  I  can  train 
mine.  We  don't  know  anything  about  government  or 
the  forces  that  drive  nations  in  peace  and  in  war;  but 
we  do  know  that  the  real  peace  is  not  in  possession, 
the  real  war  is  not  in  physical  force  and  bloodshed  to 
keep  what  you  have  got,  or  win  a  little  more.  One 
day  there'll  come  a  time  when  women  won't  give  their 
sons  for  that,  when  they'll  train  themselves  and  train 
them  to  higher  conceptions  than  you  men  have  had." 

Of  a  sudden  she  turned  from  the  reason  in  her  mind 
to  the  emotion  in  her  breast. 

"You  shan't  have  my  John!"  she  cried.  "You 
shan't  have  him !  I  made  him,  as  every  woman  could 
make  her  child  if  once  she  thought  it  was  worth  while. 
Well  —  I've  thought  it  worth  while,  as  now  I  think  it 
worth  while  to  fight  for  him  and  keep  him.  When 
you  made  your  laws  about  illegitimacy  and  gave  the 
woman  the  right  in  her  child,  it  was  because  you  con- 
sidered that  some  men  were  fools  and  all  women  were 
cowards  and  that  the  one  must  be  punished  for  his 
folly  no  less  than  the  other  for  her  fear.  But  what 

257 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

would  you  do  if  in  the  end  that  law  turned  round 
against  you?  What  would  you  do  if  all  women  chose 
to  do  as  I  have  done  and  refused  to  bind  themselves  in 
matrimony  to  the  man  who  gave  them  a  child?  Men 
would  still  be  fools,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  Nature 
relies  upon  their  folly,  while  they  have  thought  that 
what  she  relied  upon  was  their  power.  Power  it  may 
be  with  the  few,  the  few  that  can  inspire  real  love ;  but 
folly  it  is  with  the  most  of  men ;  folly  and  greed  which 
causes  them  to  make  so  many  women  scoff  at  and  hate 
the  thought  of  love.  Yes  —  hate  the  thought  of  love, 
some  women  do.  Every  young  girl  shrinks  at  the 
thought  of  physical  contact.  Many  a  young  woman 
goes  to  her  marriage  with  terror  in  her  heart  and  with 
many  that  terror  becomes  horror  when  she  knows. 
Even  we  become  the  possession  you  take  to  yourselves. 
What  most  of  you  call  love  —  is  that.  But  I'm  going 
to  teach  my  John  better  things.  When  he  comes  to 
love,  he  shall  come  awed,  as  a  woman  comes,  not 
tramping  with  the  pride  of  victory  and  possession. 
When  he  comes  to  love,  it  shall  be  to  make  her  find  it 
as  wonderful  as  now  she  falsely  dreams  it  is.  You 
can't  prevent  me.  I  don't  belong  to  you." 

Still  it  was  a  force  that  spoke  in  her,  a  force  before 
which,  with  character  alone,  he  felt  he  had  no  power 
to  oppose.  She  was  not  even  speaking  as  one  amongst 
the  countless  women  she  had  called  upon,  but  as 
woman,  setting  herself  up  in  conflict  against  man. 
This  was  real  war.  He  had  sensed  well  enough  what 
she  meant  by  that.  Yet  in  the  habit  of  his  mind,  with 

258 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

power  or  no  power  to  oppose,  he  took  such  weapons  as 
he  could  lay  his  hands  upon  and  struck  back  at  her. 

"  Don't  let's  stand  here,  like  this,"  said  he.     "  Can't 
we  sit  down  on  the  grass  and  talk  it  out  ?  " 

She  sat  down  and,  as  her  body  touched  the  ground, 
discovered  that  she  was  trembling  in  every  limb. 

'  You're  an  extraordinary  woman,  Mary,"  he  began. 
"  The  most  extraordinary  woman  I've  ever  known. 
You  talk  with  your  heart  and  yet  you  make  me  feel  all 
the  time  as  though  your  heart  were  unapproachable. 
I've  never  touched  it.     I  know  that.     I  never  touched 
it  even  those  two  nights  in  Bridnorth.     I  thought  I 
had,  but  your  letter  afterwards  soon  proved  to  me  I 
hadn't.     Some  man  could,  I  suppose,  but  as  you  talk, 
I  can't  conceive  the  type  he'd  be.     You  know  you 
frighten  me  and  you'd  terrify  most  men.     I  don't  say 
it  in  any  uncomplimentary  fashion,  but  most  men,  hear- 
ing what  you've  said  just  now,  would  go  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth  rather  than  make  love  to  or  marry  you." 
"  You  needn't  talk  about  lack  of  compliment,"  she 
said   with   a   wry   smile.     "  I'm    quite   aware  of    it. 
Women  like  me  don't  attract  men.     They  say  we're  not 
natural.     They  like  natural  women  and  by  that  they 
mean  they  like  women  who  are  submissive.     But  if  they 
think  that's  the  natural  woman,  their  conception  of 
women  has  stopped  with  the  animals.     We  aren't  pas- 
sive.    We're   coming   to   know  that   we're   a   force. 
Look  at  the  way  this  talk  of  the  enfranchisement  of 
women  is  growing.     Who'd  have  listened  to  it  twenty 
years  ago?    I  don't  profess  to  know  what  it  means. 

259 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

I  don't  profess  to  conjecture  what  it's  coming  to.  But 
it's  growing;  you  can't  deny  it." 

She  must  have  thought  she  had  won  her  way. 
Passing  like  this  to  abstract  and  speculative  things, 
she  must  have  believed  he  had  no  more  to  say;  that 
question  no  longer  existed  about  her  keeping  John.  It 
only  proved  the  want  of  knowledge  of  facts  she  ad- 
mitted and  it  was  inevitable  she  must  have.  She  had 
spent  all  the  force  of  the  vital  energy  of  her  defense, 
but  she  had  not  subdued  the  man  in  him.  Right  as  he 
knew  in  his  heart  she  was,  there  was  yet  all  the  reserve 
of  reason  in  his  mind.  The  generations  of  years  of 
precedent  were  all  behind  him.  She  had  not  subdued 
him  merely  by  victory  over  his  emotions.  The  force 
she  had  was  young  and  ill-tried.  She  had  set  it  up 
against  convention  and  triumphed  for  all  these  years. 
She  did  not  realize  now  what  weight  of  pressing  power 
there  was  behind  it,  the  overbearing  numbers  that  must 
tell  in  the  end. 

He  was  only  waiting  for  this  moment ;  this  moment 
when  in  the  flush  of  seeming  victory  she  was  weakest 
of  all;  this  moment  when  in  confidence  her  mind  re- 
laxed from  its  purpose  and,  as  was  always  happening 
with  his  sex  and  hers,  he  could  take  her  unawares. 
None  of  this  conscious  intent  there  was  in  him.  He 
was  merely  articulating  in  his  mind  in  obedience  to  the 
common  instinct  which  through  all  the  years  of  habit 
and  custom  and  use  have  become  the  nature  of  man. 

"  Yes,  that  idea  about  the  enfranchisement  of  women 
is  growing,"  he  admitted  generously,  "  but  I  quite 

260 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

agree  we  can  none  of  us  know  what  it'll  come  to.  It 
can't  alter  one  thing,  Mary." 

In  a  moment  alert  with  the  unyielding  note  in  his 
voice,  she  inquired  what  that  might  be. 

"  It  can't  alter  the  fact  that  each  one  of  us,  child,  of 
whatever  enfranchisement  we  may  be,  stands  utterly 
and  completely  alone,  encouraged  or  hampered  in  our 
fulfillment  by  the  circumstances  of  birth  that  are  made 
for  us.  It  happens  that  men  are  more  equipped  for 
the  making  of  those  circumstances  than  women  are. 
It  happens  that  men  are  more  capable  of  .wrestling 
with  and  overcoming  the  difficulties  of  environment, 
well,  in  other  words,  of  providing  the  encouragement 
of  circumstance.  I  don't  think  you  can  get  away  from 
that.  I  don't  think  you  can  get  away  from  the  fact 
that  in  this  short  life  we  don't  want  to  waste  our 
youth  in  making  a  suitable  environment  whenever  it's 
possible  to  start  so  much  ahead  and  conserve  our  ener- 
gies for  the  best  that's  in  us." 

He  turned  quickly  as  he  sat  and  looked  at  her. 

"  What  have  you  called  him?  "  he  asked. 

"  John,"  she  replied.     "  He's  John  Throgmorton." 

"Well,  do  you  think  you're  giving  him  the  best 
chance  of  trying  his  soul  with  the  biggest  things? 
Whatever  ideals  you  have  for  him,  he  stands  alone  with 
the  circumstances  of  life  in  which  you  place  him.  Do 
you  think  he's  going  to  do  the  best  with  them  here? 
Do  you  believe  when  he  grows  up,  he'll  live  to  bless  you 
for  the  chances  of  life  you  threw  away  for  him  to-day? 
Do  you  think,  if  he  has  ambition,  he'll  be  thankful  that 

261 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

he  started  life  as  a  farmer's  boy  with  scarcely  any 
education  and  but  small  prospects,  when  he  could  have 
been  a  master  of  men  with  a  big  estate  and  no  need  to 
consider  the  hampering  necessity  of  making  ends  meet? 
Do  you  think  if  he's  ambitious,  he'll  be  thankful  to  you 
for  that?  Ask  any  one  who  has  the  widest  and  most 
generous  experience  of  the  world  what  they  imagine 
will  be  his  state  of  mind  when,  with  ambition  awaken-- 
ing,  he  comes  to  learn  that  he  started  with  that  handi- 
cap. Your  ideals  and  ideas  may  be  perfect  in  theory. 
How  do  you  think  they'll  come  out  in  practice  ?  Ideas 
are  nothing  unless  they  can  stand  against  the  melting 
flames  of  fact.  The  experience  of  every  one  would  go 
to  tell  you  that  in  a  practical  world,  which  this  is,  you 
were  wrong.  Can  you  prove  you  will  be  right?  Can 
you  prove  that  when  John  grows  up  and  ambition  lights 
in  him,  he'll  thank  you  for  your  choice  to-day?  " 

She  sat  in  silence,  listening  to  every  word;  every 
word  that  beat  with  the  mechanical  insistence  of  a 
hammer  stroke  against  her  brain.  They  were  all 
arguments  she  would  have  expected  any  one  to  use  in 
such  a  case.  They  were  all  the  very  forces  against 
which  she  had  fought  for  so  long.  Yet  hearing  them 
now  with  this  added  element  of  emotion  concerning 
John,  which  drove  them  not  only  into  her  brain,  but 
beating  up  against  her  heart  as  well,  she  realized  how 
unanswerable  they  sounded  in  —  he  had  said  it  — •  in  a 
practical  world. 

Supposing  John  did  come  to  reproach  her  when  he 
learnt  the  opportunity  of  life  she  had  refused  for  him? 

262 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Her  heart  shrank  and  sickened  from  the  thought  of  it. 
If  it  were  for  herself  alone,  how  easy  it  would  be  to 
refuse;  how  easy  to  stand  by  the  principles  and  ideals 
she  knew  in  her  soul  were  true. 

But  why  should  he  ever  know?  Who  would  there 
ever  be  here  in  Yarningdale  to  tell  him?  For  one  in- 
stant that  thought  consoled  and  the  next  assailed  her 
with  venomous  accusations.  Was  it  not  the  self-con- 
fession of  weakness  to  hope  for  concealment  and  de- 
ception to  save  her  from  retribution?  The  very  real- 
ization of  it  shook  her  faith.  To  be  true,  to  be  worthy, 
to  endure,  ideals  must  be  able  to  face  the  fiercest  light ; 
must  live,  be  tried,  be  nailed  to  the  cross  if  necessary. 
Only  through  such  a  test  could  they  outlive  the  mock- 
ery of  those  who  railed  at  and  spat  on  them.  She 
knew  she  could  face  the  contempt  of  the  whole  world. 
In  her  own  world  had  she  not  faced  it  already?  But 
could  she  endure  the  recriminations  of  him  whose 
whole  life  was  so  inextricably  woven  with  her  own? 

"  Fear  not,  Mary,  for  thou  hast  found  favor  with 
God." 

Those  words  came  to  her,  a  beacon  across  the  heads 
of  all  the  years ;  but  it  seemed  very  far  away  to  her 
then.  The  light  of  it  flickered  an  instant  bringing 
courage  to  her  heart  and  then  died  out  again. 

She  did  fear  now.  More  than  anything  she  had 
feared  in  her  life,  did  she  shrink  from  the  reproach  of 
John  when  he  should  come  to  years  of  appreciation. 
Her  heart  was  here  involved.  Too  shrewdly  had 
Liddiard  struck  home  at  her  weakest  point. 

263 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  live  to  bless  you  for  the  chances 
in  life  you  threw  away  for  him  to-day  ?  " 

But  why  should  it  be  to-day  ?  Why  in  a  sudden  mo- 
ment should  this  situation  be  thrust  upon  her?  Why 
should  she  be  harassed  like  this  to  say  what  she  would 
do? 

'  You  can't  expect  me  to  give  you  a  decision  about 
this  all  at  once,"  she  said,  and  there  were  rough  edges 
to  her  voice.  These  were  not  the  smooth  words  of  an 
easy  mind. 

He  heard  each  note.  He  knew  she  was  swaying 
from  her  purpose.  He  realized  the  approach  of  what 
he  had  come  there  determined  to  secure. 

"  I  don't  wish  you  to  give  a  decision  to-day,"  he  re- 
plied. "  Of  course  I  couldn't  expect  you  to.  Do  you 
think  I  don^t  realize  what  I'm  asking  you  —  however 
much  it  may  be  for  his  s-ake." 

"  No  —  but  I  don't  mean  to-day  or  this  year  or  thd 
next,"  she  went  on  in  her  distress.  "  Can't  you  wait 
until  it  can  be  put  to  him,  until  he's  old  enough  to 
judge  for  himself;  until  he's  learnt  something  of  all 
I  want  to  teach  him  ?  " 

Liddiard  put  out  his  hand.     She  did  not  see  it. 

"  My  dear  Mary,"  he  said,  as  he  withdrew  it  again, 
"  wonderful  as  your  ideals  are,  you  have  the  fault  of 
all  idealists.  You  don't  equip  them  to  meet  the  facts 
of  life.  They're  like  flowers  planted  on  a  highway. 
You  don't  reckon  on  the  traffic  of  the  world  that  will 
break  them  down.  Whatever  your  dreams  may  be, 
they  cannot  stop  that  traffic.  The  carts  must  go  by. 

264 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

You  can't  prevent  a  man  from  setting  out  onliis  jour- 
neys. You  can  only  hinder  him  from  reaching  his 
destination  by  the  beast  you  give  him  to  draw  the 
vehicle  of  his  ambitions,  by  the  sound  of  the  ramshackle 
vehicle  itself  which  you  provide  him  with  to  reach  his 
journey's  end.  John  couldn't  come  to  Wenlock  Hall 
with  the  education  of  a  farmer's  boy.  That  would  be 
too  cruel.  That  would  hamper  him  at  every  turn. 
The  springs  of  his  cart  would  be  creaking.  It  would 
be  like  asking  him  to  drive  down  Rotten  Row  in  a 
muck  cart.  Do  you  think  he'd  find  that  fair?  He 
must  go  to  school.  He  must  go  to  the  University. 
He.  must  learn  the  things  that  it  is  necessary  he  should 
know  to  fill  a  position  like  that.  You  can't  send  him. 
It  must  be  me.  I  don't  want  your  decision  at  once. 
I  can  wait  a  week,  a  month,  more.  But  you  must  see 
yourself  it  can't  be  years.  It  can't  be  till  he's  able  to 
choose  for  himself.  That  is  the  unpractical  side  of 
your  ideals.  You  don't  realize  it  would  be  too  late 
then." 

Mary  sat  with  her  elbows  resting  on  her  knees,  her 
face  locked  and  hidden  in  her  hands.  It  was  an  abyss 
which,  round  that  unexpected  corner,  she  had  seen 
yawning  at  her  feet.  It  was  deep.  It  was  dark. 
Nothing  so  dark  or  deep  or  fathomless  had  presented 
itself  to  her  in  her  life  before.  She  felt  herself  falling, 
falling,  falling  into  the  bottomless  pit  of  it  and  not  one 
hand  was  there  in  all  the  world  that  stretched  itself  out 
to  save  her. 

She  had  come  so  far,  knowing  at  every  turn  that, 
265 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

for  all  the  rough  and  broken  surfaces,  her  road  was 
right ;  thinking,  however  hard  or  merciless  to  her  feet, 
it  yet  would  lead  to  sweet  and  quiet  places.  Courage 
she  had  had  and  fear  she  had  known  along  the  whole 
way.  Still  she  had  striven  on  as  one,  bearing  a  heavy 
burden,  who  knows  there  is  release  and  rest  at  her 
journey's  end. 

But  before  the  chasm  of  this  abyss  that  fronted  her, 
it  was  not  so  much  courage  she  lost  as  the  vital  essence 
of  volition.  For  herself  she  did  not  feel  afraid. 
Whatever  destruction  might  be  awaiting  her  in  those 
depths,  she  did  not  shrink  from  it.  Eagerly,  willingly, 
she  would  have  sacrificed  herself,  but  had  no  strength 
to  take  the  hazard  of  what  might  chance  and  sacrifice 
him. 

There  was  little  need  for  Liddiard  to  tell  her  how 
every  precedent  in  life  opposed  the  thing  she  had  set 
herself  to  do.  And  once  John  had  come  in  contact  with 
life  itself,  how  could  she  be  sure  the  pressure  of  his 
thoughts  would  not  be  tinctured  with  regret.  What 
more  bitter  inheritance,  what  more  accusing  testimony 
of  her  failure  than  that? 

Not  always  a  faun  could  she  keep  him.  Not  always 
with  a  dryad  could  he  play  in  happy  meadows.  The 
world  it  seemed  had  grown  too  old,  too  worn,  for  that. 
Something  must  happen  to  stir  human  nature  to  its 
depths  and  rearrange  the  threadbare  and  accepted  values 
before  it  could  ever  be  young  again. 

Here  she  knew  she  was  but  dreaming  dreams. 
There  lay  the  abyss  before  her.  Nothing  in  the  wildest 

266 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

flights  of  her  imagination  she  could  conceive  was  able 
to  fill  its  depths  or  make  a  bridge,  however  treacherous, 
to  span  it. 

He  had  said  it.  These  things  were  unanswerable  in 
a  practical  world;  and  in  a  practical  world  there  was 
no  true  sense  of  vision.  The  possessions  of  men 
had  become  their  limitations.  Beyond  them  and  the 
ease  they  brought  to  the  few  years  that  were  theirs, 
they  could  not  see. 

The  vision  she  had  had  was  but  a  glimpse ;  a  world 
beyond,  not  a  world  about  her.  As  Liddiard  watched 
her,  she  sank  her  head  upon  her  knees.  He  thought 
she  had  turned  to  tears.  But  a  heart,  breaking,  turns 
to  that  water  that  does  not  flow  out  of  the  eyes. 

He  thought  she  had  turned  to  weeping  and  in  genuine 
sympathy  laid  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm.  And  this 
was  the  spear  thrust  that  set  free  the  water  from  the 
gash  his  touching  hand  made  in  her  side. 

She  drew  away  and  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at 
him. 

"  You're  strangling  all  the  joy  in  the  world,"  she 
said. 


Ill 

THERE  came  the  sound  of  a  voice  through  the 
willow  trees,  across  the  other  side  of  the 
stream.  It  was  a  sturdy  voice,  high  and  ring- 
ing with  encouragement. 

"  Bear  up  —  be  brave,"  it  said.  "  We're  coming  to 
the  ford.  Once  the  river's  crossed  there  are  only  a  few 
more  miles  to  go  before  we're  safe." 

The  smile  that  rose  into  Mary's  eyes  found  no  place 
to  linger  there.  She  turned  with  Liddiard  at  the  sound 
to  see,  a  faun  no  longer,  a  faun  transformed  to  stalwart 
man,  bearing  a  distressed  maiden  in  his  arms  —  a 
knight  errant  shouldering  the  precious  burden  of  out- 
raged womanhood  and  bringing  her  to  safety. 

Again  the  smile  crept  back  into  Mary's  eyes.  Again 
it  crept  away. 

"Has  Lucy  hurt  herself?"  she  asked.  "What's 
the  matter  with  her?  " 

"  There  were  two  terrible  robbers  in  the  wood,"  said 
he  as  he  strode  with  his  burden  into  the  stream. 
"  They  had  tied  her  to  a  tree.  She  was  all  naked  when 
I  found  her.  I've  killed  them  both  —  she's  — "  Then 
seeing  Liddiard  for  the  first  time,  he  stopped.  Aston- 
ishment leapt  into  his  eyes.  He  set  his  Lucy  down  and 
stood  staring. 

"  John,"  said  Mary,  "  this  is  a  friend  of  mine,  a  Mr. 
268 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Liddiard."     She  turned  to   Liddiard.     "This  is  my 
John,"  she  said. 

They  met  and  solemnly  shook  hands.  With  eyes 
that  sought  for  subtlest  meanings  and  hidden  things, 
Mary  watched  them,  the  touching  of  their  hands,  the 
look  of  the  eyes.  So  surely  she  knew,  across  the  un- 
measured distance  between  them,  Liddiard  was  casting 
the  javelin  of  his  soul  to  pierce  John's  heart.  In  that 
silence  as  he  stood  holding  John's  hand,  she  knew  he 
was  eagerly,  determinedly,  poignantly  conscious  of  be- 
ing father  of  her  child  and  in  that  silence  was  straining 
to  project  his  consciousness  into  the  very  soul  of  John. 
Would  he  respond?  She  watched  them  both,  but 
closest  by  far,  her  John.  Was  there  some  voice  in  life 
between  father  and  child  which  all  the  years  and  all 
their  silence  could  not  still?  With  almost  a  jealous 
dread  she  stood  before  that  moment  swift  in  her  mind 
to  see  the  faintest  sign.  Would  he  respond? 

For  a  while  John's  hand  lay  in  Liddiard's,  then  of 
himself  he  took  it  away. 

"Can  we  go  on  playing,  Mummy?"  he  asked. 
When  she  knew  there  had  been  no  answer  to  Lid- 
diard's call ;  when,  sure  in  her  heart  he  know  none  but 
her,  she  knelt  down  on  the  grass  at  his  side  and  took 
his  cool  cheeks  in  her  hands. 

"  If  you'll  kiss  me,"  said  she,  "  if  you'll  kiss  me 
first." 

He  framed  his  lips  and  kissed  her  eyes  and  stood 
back  laughing.  He  framed  his  lips  again  and  kissed 
her  mouth,  then  laughed  again  and  lastly,  flinging  his 

269 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

arms  about  her  neck,  he  poured  his  kisses  like  a  song 
into  her  ears,  then,  shouting  to  his  Lucy,  ran  away. 

In  a  long  silence,  Liddiard  turned  and  watched  them, 
faun  and  dryad  once  more,  spirits  of  that  sunshine  and 
those  deep  green  shades  of  the  trees.  He  looked  back 
at  Mary. 

'  You've  made  a  sturdy,  splendid  thing  of  him, 
Mary,"  he  said  emotionally.  "  You've  made  him  fit 
for  the  very  best." 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

"  Who's  the  little  girl?  "  he  asked  presently. 

"  Lucy  —  Lucy  Kemp.  She's  the  daughter  of  a 
farmer  who  lives  over  there.  They're  great  friends." 
She  half  smiled.  "  I  was  jealous  at  first.  I  know  now 
these  things  must  be.  Boy  and  girl,  why  shouldn't 
they  begin  that  way?  It's  grown  to  be  the  sweetest  of 
wooings  to  me.  They're  becoming  like  two  young 
shoots  together.  One  day  their  roots  will  twine." 

He  put  on  his  hat. 

"  You  can't  be  sure  of  that,"  said  he.  "  One  day 
perhaps  he'll  need  his  own.  I  know  you  think,  living 
here,  that  class  means  nothing.  You  rule  out  heredity 
altogether.  But  it  comes  out.  He  might  be  content. 
Do  you  think  a  girl  like  that  could  ever  make  him 
realize  the  fullness  of  life?" 

Fear  sprang  back  into  her  heart  again. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  ever  come?"  she  said.  "We 
were  all  so  happy  here !  " 


IV 

MARY  stayed  on  at  Yarningdale  when  John 
was  taken  away  to  school.     Had  she  had 
fear  of  the  pain  it  was,  she  would  still  have 
remained.     Mr.  and  Mrs.   Peverell  were  getting  old 
and  so  close  by  this  was  her  life  now  knit  with  theirs, 
she  knew  her  absence  would  have  made  too  deep  a  void 
were  she  to  leave  them  then. 

The  natural  milkmaid  she  had  become,  so  skillful,  so 
acknowledgable  and  conscientious  in  her  work,  that 
Mr.  Peverell  had  increased  his  activities  in  this  direc- 
tion.    Where  at  first  there  had  been  but  nine  milking 
cows,  there  now  were  fourteen.     All  through  the  sum- 
mer months,  he  supplied  thirty  gallons  of  milk  a  day. 
Filled  in  the  churns,  Mary  drove  with  it  every  evening 
in  the  spring  cart  to  the  station.     At  her  suggestion 
and  by  means  of  her  labor  he  undertook  the  rearing  of 
his  own  calves  and  the  ultimate  introduction  of  them 
into    the    milking    herd.     Whenever    good    fortune 
brought  them  a  promising  heifer  calf,  it  was  given  into 
Mary's  charge.     It  became  an  interest  deeper  and  more 
exacting  than  she  knew  to  wean  and  rear  it  for  the  herd. 
So  they  were  able  to  know  the  character  and  history  of 
each  beast  as  it  came  into  service,  its  milking  qualities, 
its  temper,  the  stock  from  which  it  sprang. 

271 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

As  thus,  having  weaned  him  towards  the  vision 
of  life  she  had,  Mary  would  have  reared  her 
John. 

"Why  —  why  did  'ee  let  'en  go,  Maidy?"  Mrs. 
Peverell  had  cried  to  her  the  night  after  John's  de- 
parture when  she  lay  stretched  upon  her  bed,  staring, 
staring,  staring  at  the  paper  on  the  wall. 

"  I'd  taught  him  to  give,"  she  muttered.  "  How 
would  he  believe  what  I'd  said  one  day,  when  he  learnt 
that  I'd  kept  back?  How  can  you  teach  another  how 
to  live  if  you  don't  know  how,  yourself?  There's  only 
one  way  of  knowing  the  truth  about  life  —  living  it. 
I  shan't  lose  him.  I  know  deep  and  deep  and  deep  in 
my  heart,  I  shan't.  He's  gone,  but  he'll  come  back. 
Should  I  really  have  believed  if  I  hadn't  let  him  go? 
The  belief  that's  really  in  the  spirit  comes  out  in  the 
flesh.  It  must!  It  must!  Or  soul  and  body  are 
never  one." 

It  was  to  herself  she  had  spoken.  Never  her  hopes, 
ambitions  or  faith  for  John  had  she  attempted  to  ex- 
plain to  Mrs.  Peverell.  None  but  the  simplest  issues 
of  life  could  that  good  woman  appreciate.  Right  or 
wrong  things  were  with  her.  No  other  texture  but 
this  they  had.  In  fullest  conviction  she  knew  that 
Mary  had  been  right  in  everything  she  had  done.  So 
close  in  sympathy  with  their  Maidy  was  she  now  that 
even  in  this  parting  with  John,  that  well-nigh  broke 
her  heart,  she  felt  Mary  must  be  right. 

"  Shall  I  cross  his  name  out  of  the  book,  Maidy?  " 
she  had  asked  as  she  was  leaving  the  room.  '  'Twon't 

272 


be  nothing  to  him,  this  place,  when  he  comes  into  his 
big  estate." 

Sitting  up  in  the  bed,  Mary  had  called  Mrs.  Peverell 
to  her,  clutching  her  hands. 

"  Never  do  that !  "  she  cried.  "  That  was  his  birth- 
right. He  was  born  here.  I  made  him  here.  Prom- 
ise me,  don't  do  that.  If  you  did  that,  I  should  feel 
I'd  lost  him  forever !  " 

For  the  first  half  of  every  holiday  at  school  John 
came  back  to  his  mother  at  Yarningdale.  The  re- 
mainder of  his  time  he  spent  in  Somerset.  How  closely 
she  watched  him  it  is  not  difficult  to  suppose.  Every 
term  that  passed  brought  him  to  her  again  with  some- 
thing she  had  taught  him  gone,  with  something  they 
had  taught  him  in  its  place. 

To  the  outward  observer,  he  was  the  same  John. 
All  his  love  he  gave  her,  teasing  her  with  it  as  he  grew 
older,  playing  the  lover  to  her  shyness  when  she  found 
him  turning  from  boy  to  man. 

They  spoke  little  of  Liddiard  or  the  life  in  Somerset 
for  the  first  year.  All  invitations  to  Wenlock  Hall 
though  freely  offered,  she  refused. 

"  I  appreciate  your  wife's  generosity  of  wish  to  meet 
me ;  don't  think  me  seeking  to  make  difficulties ;  really  I 
am  trying  to  avoid  them,"  she  wrote. 

In  fact  it  was  that  Yarningdale  was  her  home  and 
still,  pursuant  of  her  purpose,  she  would  not  allow  John 
to  associate  her  in  his  mind  with  any  other  place. 

273 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Within  a  year  they  had  made  him  feel  the  substance  of 
his  inheritance.  He  spoke  of  Wenlock  Hall,  knowing 
it  would  be  his.  Inevitably  he  made  comparisons  be- 
tween their  lives  and  hers,  but  it  was  not  until  after  his 
first  term  at  Oxford  that  openly  he  questioned  her  wis- 
dom in  staying  on  the  farm. 

"  They  both  want  you  down  there,  Mater,  at  Wen- 
lock  Hall.  And  after  all,  this  is  a  poky  little  place, 
isn't  it?  Of  course  the  farm's  not  bad,  but  it's  a  bit 
ramshackle  and  sometimes  I  hate  to  think  of  you  still 
milking  the  cows  in  those  dingy  old  stalls.  We've 
got  lovely  sheds  at  Wenlock  Hall,  asphalt  floor,  beau- 
tifully drained,  plenty  of  light  and  as  clean  as  a  new 
pin." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"  For  nearly  eighteen  years,  John,  I've  been  milking 
the  cows  in  those  stalls.  Until  two  weeks  before  you 
were  born,  I  sat  there  milking  them.  As  soon  as  I  was 
well  again  I  went  back.  You've  got  your  little  private 
chapel  at  Wenlock  Hall.  Those  stalls  are  my  chapel. 
That  little  window  hung  with  cobwebs  through  which 
I've  seen  the  sunset  —  oh,  so  many  times,  I  don't  want 
any  more  wonderful  an  altar  than  that.  In  those  stalls 
I've  had  thoughts  no  light  through  stained  glass  win- 
dows could  ever  have  brought  to  me.  Do  you  remem- 
ber sitting  beside  me  there  while  I  milked,  oh,  heaps  of 
times,  but  one  time  particularly  when  you  asked  me 
about  God?" 

He  thought  an  instant  and  then  burst  into  shouts  of 
laughter. 

274 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  What,  that  time  I  asked  you  if  God  had  a  beard 
like  old  Peverell  ?  " 

She  tried  to  laugh  with  him,  just  as,  at  the  time,  she 
had  tried  to  control  her  laughter.  This  was  the  differ- 
ence between  John,  then  and  now;  was  it  not  indeed 
the  difference  in  all  of  her  life? 

*  That  was  the  end,"  said  she,  "  that  was  the  last 
question  you  asked.  We  had  said  a  lot  before  that. 
Don't  you  remember?  " 

"  I  was  just  a  kid  then,"  said  he.     "  I  suppose  I  was 
always  asking  questions." 
"  Don't  you  now  ?  " 

"  No,  not  so  much,  why  should  I  ?  Mater,  you 
don't  expect  me  always  to  be  a  silly  little  fool,  do 
you?" 

The  breath  was  deep  she  drew. 
"  You  were  far  from  being  a  silly  little  fool  then, 
John.     Those  questions  were  all  wonderful  to  me,  even 
the  last  one." 

He  laid  both  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  and  looked 
far  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  take  life  so  seriously,  Mater,"  he  said. 
"  Only  when  it  loses  its  seriousness,  John,"  she  re- 
plied.    "  I  was  full  of  the  joy  of  it  in  those  days  when 
always  you  were  flinging  your  earnest  little  questions 
at  me.     It's  now  when  it  seems  to  me  sometimes  you 
want  to  play  with  life  that  I  take  it  seriously.     It's 
now,  when  sometimes  you  give  me  the  impression  you 
just  want  to  enjoy  life,  that  all  the  joy  goes  out  of  it. 
I   wonder  would  you   understand,  my  dearest,"   she 

275 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

slipped  her  arm  about  his  neck,  "  if  I  told  you  you 
were  more  of  a  man  to  me  then  than  often  you  are 
now." 

"  Well,  dash  it,  Mater,  I  can't  help  it.  We  don't  go 
mooching  about  the  'Varsity  with  long  faces  wondering 
about  God.  Every  chap  enjoys  himself  as  much  as  he 
can  and  that  all  depends  on  the  allowance  he  gets  from 
his  people.  They're  jolly  decent  to  me  that  way.  I've 
a  good  deal  more  than  most  fellows.  Why,  I  have  a 
corking  time  up  there  and  why  shouldn't  I?  I  shall 
be  young  only  once." 

"  You  might  always  be  young,"  she  whispered. 
"  They're  teaching  you  that  youth's  a  thing  to  spend, 
like  money  when  you  have  it.  I  know  it's  all  the  train- 
ing, my  dear.  I  ought  never  to  have  let  you  go.  I'd 
never  have  taught  you  that." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  got  much  joy  out  of  working  on 
this  bally  old  farm,  should  I  ?  "  he  retaliated.  "  The 
Pater's  busy  enough  down  at  Wenlock  Hall,  but  he 
doesn't  actually  do  manual  work.  He's  always  going 
round  the  place.  I  don't  suppose  it  pays,  real  profits, 
I  mean,  like  old  Peverell  makes  this  pay,  but  it  gives 
plenty  of  employment." 

"  Pater?     Is  that  what  you  call  him  now?  " 

After  the  sound  of  that  word,  she  had  heard  no 
more.  It  rang  with  countless  echoes  in  her  brain. 
What  a  sound  it  might  have  had  if  ever  she  had  loved. 
Was  it  as  hollow  to  other  women  as  it  was  to  her  now  ? 

"  He  asked  me  to,  this  year,"  said  John.  "  Just  be- 
fore I  went  up  to  the  'Varsity.  I  couldn't  refuse, 

276 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

could  I  ?  After  all,  he  is  my  father.  Lots  of  people 
say  I'm  awfully  like  him." 

Mary  turned  away. 

"  I  must  go  out  and  fetch  the  cows  now,"  she  said. 
"  Would  you  like  to  come?  " 

.He  showed  an  instant's  pause.  Before  it  had 
passed,  swiftly  that  instant  her  pride  arrested  it. 

"  Perhaps  you  were  going  to  do  something  else," 
said  she. 

"  Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  going  to  take  old 
Peverell's  gun  round  by  the  wood.  It's  alive  with 
rabbits.  He  says  they're  spoiling  his  mangolds." 

"  All  right,  my  dear.     I'll  see  you  at  supper-time." 

She  drove  the  cows  into  the  shed.  One  by  one  they 
filed  into  their  accustomed  stalls.  Mechanically  she 
fastened  the  chains  about  their  necks  and  took  down 
her  stool  and  brought  her  pail  Leaning  her  cheek  as 
so  many  times  she  had  done  against  the  first  warm 
flank,  she  looked  up.  The  setting  sun  was  shining 
through  the  window. 


FHT^HIS  and  many  other  such  conversations  re- 
;  vealed  in  time  to  Mary  that  which  she  had 

M  both  known  and  feared.  John  was  changing. 
Every  fresh  occasion  of  their  meeting  he  was  altered 
a  little  more.  The  possessive  passion,  inherent  in  the 
very  nature  of  his  sex,  was  stirring  in  him.  Grad- 
ually but  inevitably  they  were  wakening  in  him  the 
pride  of  inheritance.  Less  and  less  did  it  seem  to  her 
he  was  creating  his  own. 

It  was  all  too  subtle  to  arrest,  too  elusive  to  oppose. 
Still,  as  always,  he  had  his  charm.  Both  Peverell  and 
his  wife  found  him  altered,  it  was  true,  but  improved. 

"  There  be  gettin'  the  grand  manner  of  the  squire 
about  'en,"  Peverell  said  one  day  when  he  went  back 
to  Somerset  before  returning  to  Oxford.  "  How  many 
acres  is  it  coming  to  'en  ?  Two  thousand !  Well !  A 
young  man  needs  his  head  set  right  way  on  to  let  none 
o'  that  go  wastin'." 

Not  even  did  Mary  let  Mrs.  Peverell  see  the  wound 
she  had.  Scarcely  herself  did  she  realize  how  deep  it 
had  gone.  But  more  than  in  his  manner  and  the  things 
he  said,  it  was  in  his  attitude  to  Lucy  she  was  made 
most  conscious  of  his  change. 

During  his  first  holidays,  they  had  played  together 
as  though  no  difference  had  entered  their  lives  to  sep- 

278 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

arate  them.  The  next  time  they  were  more  reserved. 
A  shyness  had  come  over  them  which  partly  Mary 
justified  to  herself,  ascribing  it  to  that  awkwardness 
of  the  schoolboy  who,  if  he  is  not  playing  some  manly 
game  or  doing  some  manly  thing,  is  ever  ready  to 
fear  the  accusation  of  ridiculousness. 

But  it  was  before  he  went  to  Oxford,  while  he  was 
yet  at  school  that  the  change  in  him  became  more  than 
that  merely  of  confusion.  It  was  plain  to  be  seen  that 
he  avoided  her  then.  A  solitary  figure,  wandering  in 
the  Highfield  meadow  where  first  they  had  met,  where, 
most  likely  it  was,  they  still  would  meet  whenever  he 
was  at  Yarningdale,  showed  to  Mary  the  patient  heart 
that  watched  and  waited  for  him. 

Sometimes  at  Mary's  invitation  she  joined  and 
walked  with  them.  Often  it  was  no  more  than  a 
shouted  greeting  from  John,  flung  into  the  wind  over 
his  shoulder,  after  which  the  little  figure  would  disap- 
pear through  the  willow  trees  and  for  the  rest  of  those 
holidays  perhaps  be  seen  no  more,  or  ever  be  men- 
tioned by  John. 

"  Have  you  lost  all  interest  in  Lucy  ?  "  Mary  asked 
him  straightly  once  when,  at  the  end  of  his  time  at 
Yarningdale,  he  was  packing  up  his  things  for  the  rest 
of  his  holiday  in  Somerset. 

He  looked  up,  at  first  surprised  and  then  with  color 
rising  in  his  cheeks. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  interest?"  he  asked.  "I 
like  her  very  much.  If  you  mean  I  haven't  seen  her 
these  holidays,  I  can't  go  hunting  her  out,  can  I  ? " 

279 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

"  Can't  you  ?     You  used  to  once." 

"  Well,  I  was  a  kid  then.  So  was  she.  She's  nearly 
seventeen  now." 

"  Doesn't  it  all  come  back  to  a  matter  of  interest 
though?  You  can't  be  interested,  of  course,  if  you're 
not.  I'm  not  suggesting  that  you're  being  willfully 
unkind  to  her.  I  don't  think  you'd  be  willfully  unkind 
to  any  one ;  but  do  you  know  what  will  happen  as  soon 
as  you've  gone?  " 

"What?" 

"  She'll  come  round  here  on  some  pretext.  She'll 
contrive  to  seek  me  out  and  gradually  we  shall  begin 
to  talk  about  you  and  then,  most  cunningly  it  will  seem 
to  herself  she  is  doing  it,  she'll  ask  whether  you  said 
anything  about  her  while  you  were  here  and  if  you  did 
what  it  was  and  how  you  said  it  or  what  I  think  you 
meant  by  it." 

John  flung  the  things  into  his  bag. 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  encourage  her,  Mater,"  he 
exclaimed. 

She  came  across  the  room  to  him.  She  took  his 
hands  that  clumsily  were  folding  some  garment  before 
he  could  pack  it.  She  forced  him  to  turn  his  face  to 
hers. 

"  It's  just  as  much  that  she  encourages  me,"  she  said. 
"  Do  you  know  I  was  jealous  of  her  once  ?  " 

He  guffawed  with  laughter  and  took  her  face  in  his 
hands  and  kissed  her  between  the  eyes. 

"  I  was,"  she  whispered,  her  voice  made  more  than 
tender  with  that  kiss.  "  When  she  first  took  your 

280 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

thoughts  a  moment  from  me,  that  day  you  met  her 
when  we  were  making  hay  in  the  Highfield  meadow,  I 
was  jealous  then.     Now  we  have  one  thing,  so  closely 
in  common  that,  though  she's  only  sixteen  and  I'm 
forty-seven  we've  become  inseparable  friends." 
"  What  do  you  mean,  one  thing  in  common  ?  " 
"  The  old  John." 

For  an  instant  she  gave  lease  to  her  emotion  and 
gently  clung  to  him. 

"  That  was  the  young  John,"  she  added  in  a  whisper, 
"  the  little  boy  with  the  mop  of  hair  who  was  a  pirate 
captain  an'd  a  Claude  Duval  and  a  hundred  sturdy  men 
all  contained,  John,  in  the  simplest,  sweetest  mind  that 
held  one  thought.  It  was  to  be  a  man  like  Mr.  Peverell 
and  till  the  soil  with  labor  from  sunrise  to  the  sunset, 
a  man  like  Mr.  Peverell  who  owed  no  thanks  to  any, 
but  out  of  his  own  heart  and  with  his  own  energy  made 
his  pride,  a  man  like  Mr.  Peverell  who  gave  all  that  he 
had  to  the  earth  which  gave  all  back  again  to  him." 

Her  voice  was  almost  trembling  now.  Chance  of 
circumstance  had  placed  this  moment  in  her  hands. 
She  knew  she  was  fighting  for  her  ideals,  perhaps  with 
the  last  opportunity  that  would  ever  be  given  her. 

Would  he  respond?  Her  heart  fluttered  in  her 
breast  with  fear.  Had  this  opportunity  come  too  late  ? 
Was  he  past  answering  to  it  now?  She  hung  upon 
the  moment  with  catching  breath,  scarce  daring  to 
watch  his  eyes,  lest  she  should  know  too  soon. 

Feeling  his  arm  slip  round  her  shoulder,  finding  his 
lips  against  her  cheek,  she  could  have  cried  aloud  for 

281 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

joy,  yet  all  in  strange  perversity  kept  the  stiller  in  his 
arms. 

This  was  response.  The  touch  of  her  mind  had  not 
yet  gone  from  his.  He  had  emotions  yet  that  answered 
to  her  own.  The  possessive  passion  had  not  won  him 
wholly  for  its  own.  A  heart  he  had  that  still  could 
beat  with  hers,  that  still  could  urge  the  love  in  him  to 
take  her  in  his  arms. 

She  knew  he  was  going  to  speak  and  waited,  saying 
no  more  herself  to  prompt  the  answer  he  might  give, 
but  laying  her  cheek  against  his  lips,  hearing  the  breath 
he  drew  as  he  replied. 

"  I  don't  feel  that  I've  changed,  Mater,"  he  mur- 
mured to  her.  "  I'm  a  bit  older,  that's  all.  Being  up 
at  Oxford  makes  you  see  things  differently,  and  it's 
awfully  different  at  Wenlock  Hall  from  what  it  is  here. 
You  get  out  of  the  way  of  doing  things  for  yourself, 
there  are  so  many  people  to  do  them  for  you.  Why 
don't  you  come  down  there?  It's  awfully  jolly. 
They'd  give  you  an  awfully  good  time.  I  know  they 
would.  Let  me  send  a  wire  and  say  you're  coming 
these  holidays,  with  me,  now?  Do!  Will  you?" 

She  shook  her  head.  He  did  not  know  what  temp- 
tation he  offered.  But  there,  in  Yarningdale  was  the 
citadel  of  her  faith.  Deeply  as  she  longed  always  to 
be  with  him,  she  dared  not  sally  forth  on  such  adven- 
ture as  that.  Only  her  faith  was  there  to  be  its  garri- 
son. Only  by  setting  her  standard  there  upon  its  walls 
did  she  feel  she  could  defend  the  fortress  of  her  ideals. 

If  she  could  but  keep  his  love,  as  now  in  his  arms 
282 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

she  felt  she  had  it  sure,  then  always  there  was  hope 
she  might  draw  him  back  to  the  life  that  she  had 
planned  for  him.  A  brave  hope  it  was  while  she  rested 
there  in  his  arms.  For  one  moment  it  soared  high 
indeed ;  the  next  it  fluttered  like  a  shot  bird  to  the  earth. 

"  Don't  ask  me  about  Lucy,"  he  said  as  still  he  held 
her  to  him.  "  You  can't  expect  me  to  feel  the  same 
about  her,  or  that  it  should  grow  into  anything  more 
than  it  was.  After  all,  she's  only  Kemp's  daughter." 

She  looked  away.  Her  hold  of  him  loosened. 
Scarcely  realizing  it,  she  had  slipped  from  his  arms  and 
was  standing  alone. 


I 


VI 

T  was  just  before  the  summer  vacation,  when  John 
was  eighteen,  that  he  had  written  to  Mary, 
saying  — 


"  I've  got  special  leave  to  come  down  next  Friday  and 
I  want  to  ask  you  something.  There's  a  girl  I've  got  to 
know,  well,  she's  twenty-five  and  I  want  you  to  meet  her 
first  before  they  do  at  Wenlock  Hall." 

She  had  come  then  and  so  soon.  The  first  woman 
of  John's  own  choosing  now  he  was  become  a  man. 
The  jealousy  she  had  known  concerning  Lucy  was  as 
nothing  to  this  she  felt  with  a  sickness  of  apprehension 
in  her  now.  Fate,  circumstance,  the  mere  happenings 
of  life,  these  had  brought  him  his  Lucy.  But  here  was 
one  his  heart  must  have  sought  out,  his  soul  had  chosen. 
She  seemed  to  know  there  was  no  chance,  but  something 
selective  about  this.  Here  the  nature  that  was  in  him 
had  been  called  upon.  For  the  first  time,  with  no  un- 
certainty, she  was  to  learn  what  that  nature  was. 

Mrs.  Peverell  indeed  had  spoken  true  when  she  had 
called  him  a  love-child.  His  response  to  passion  had 
been  swift  and  soon.  And  was  he  coming,  awed  to 
love  as  once  she  had  said  she  would  teach  him  to  come  ? 
Or  was  he  tramping  with  the  pride  of  victory  and 
possession?  The  moment  she  saw  this  girl,  she 
would  know.  The  world  was  full  of  women  who 

284 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

asked  for  no  more;  who  judged  the  affections  of  their 
men  by  just  that  measure  of  animal  passion  which  in 
their  hearts  and  often  upon  their  tongues  they  pro- 
fessed to  despise. 

Only  the  few  there  were  who,  never  asking  but  wait- 
ing for  the  love  that  she  had  wished  to  teach  him,  in- 
spired it.  Had  his  heart  sought  out  one  of  these? 
With  fear  and  trembling  she  read  on. 

"  I  can't  explain  in  writing,"  the  letter  continued,  "  but 
you  must  see  her  before  any  one  else." 

The  degree  of  her  gratitude  for  that  for  a  moment 
drove  away  all  fear,  but  not  for  long. 

"  I've  told  her  everything  about  myself,"  she  read  on. 
"  She's  wonderful.  She  doesn't  mind  a  bit.  I  want  you 
to  let  me  bring  her  down  to  Yarningdale.  She  can  have 
my  room  and  I'll  doss  out  at  the  Inn.  I  know  you'll  like 
her.  You  must.  She's  splendid.  I've  warned  her  what 
the  farm  is  like,  that  it's  a  bit  rough,  but  she  doesn't  care 
and  she's  longing  to  meet  you." 

All  Mary's  intuitive  impressions  of  her  who  did  not 
mind  when  she  had  heard  about  her  John,  she  put  away 
from  her  and,  harnessing  the  light  horse  in  the  spring 
cart,  drove  down  that  Friday  to  the  station. 

It  was  characteristic  of  John's  letters  that  he  had  not 
mentioned  her  name.  Many  of  his  friends  at  the 
'Varsity  she  knew  well  by  his  accounts  of  them,  having 
no  more  classification  for  them  in  her  mind  than  the 
nicknames  they  went  by. 

285 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

John  was  leaning  out  of  the  carriage  window  as  the 
train  drew  in.  Swift  enough  she  noted  the  look  of 
eager  excitement  in  his  eyes ;  but  it  was  that  figure  in 
the  pale  blue  frock  behind  him  she  saw.  As  they  came 
down  the  platform  towards  her,  John  first  with  his 
bounding  stride,  still  it  was  the  figure  behind  him  her 
heart  was  watching,  notwithstanding  that  she  gave  her 
eyes  to  him. 

"  Here's  Dorothy  Fielding,  Mater,"  he  said,  scarcely 
with  pause  to  exchange  their  kiss  of  meeting. 

She  turned  with  the  smile  that  hid  her  hurt  to  meet 
those  eyes  her  John  had  chosen  to  look  into. 

It  was  a  quiet  woman  this  Dorothy  saw,  so  calm  and 
serene  as  made  her  realize  how  all  those  subtle  prepara- 
tions she  had  made  for  this  meeting  were  wasted  here. 
That  she  was  well  gowned,  well  shod,  that  her  hair  was 
neither  too  carefully  dressed  nor  untidy  in  its  effect, 
that  her  hat  showed  confidence  in  her  taste,  all  these 
preparations  over  which  she  had  taken  such  care  she 
knew  could  not  avail  here  in  the  judgment  of  those 
eyes  that  met  hers. 

This  was  not  just  a  woman  she  had  to  please  and 
satisfy;  it  was  something  like  an  element,  like  fire  or 
like  rushing  water  her  soul  must  meet,  all  bare  and 
stripped  of  the  disguising  superficialities  of  life. 

"  This  is  the  first  time  I've  heard  your  name,"  said 
Mary  with  that  smile  she  gave  her.  "  John  never  men- 
tioned it  in  his  letter.  But  then  I  don't  suppose  he's 
ever  told  you  what  I  was  like." 

"  Mater !  I've  told  Dorothy  everything,  haven't  I, 
286 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Dee  ?     Described  every  little  detail  about  you,  rather !  " 

Mary's  hands  stretched  out  and  held  his.  Her  eyes 
she  kept  for  Dorothy. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you're  not  disappointed,"  she  said, 
"  because  I'm  not  a  bit  like  it  —  am  I  ?  " 

She  knew  so  soon,  at  once.  So  far  beyond  the  reach 
of  conscious  comprehension  had  been  Dorothy's  sur- 
prise that  now  it  came  rushing  to  the  surface  of  her 
mind  with  Mary's  detection  of  it. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  she  replied,  "  I  think  I'd  have 
known  you  anywhere." 

Then  from  that  moment  they  knew  they  shared  no 
thought  in  common.  That  first  lie  was  the  sound  of 
their  challenge.  Each  for  their  separate  purposes  they 
were  at  enmity  in  their  claim  of  John.  He  stood  be- 
side them,  there  upon  the  platform,  supremely  uncon- 
scious of  the  forces  he  had  set  free,  sublimely  happy  in 
his  achievement  of  bringing  them  together. 

There  were  two  women,  dearer  to  him  at  that  mo- 
ment than  any  two  other  people  in  the  world  and  all 
he  saw  was  the  smiles  they  gave  each  other.  The 
spiritual  and  the  material  need  of  him  they  had,  for 
which  already  they  had  cried  the  challenge  to  battle,  this 
came  no  more  even  to  the  threshold  of  his  mind  than 
came  to  his  ears,  intent  on  all  they  said,  the  short,  si 
whistle  of  the  departing  train. 

Each  in  that  first  moment  had  set  up  her  standard. 
His  soul  was  the  sepulchre  for  which  Mary  foughi 
There  between  those  two,  lay  John's  ideals  and  vis, 
of  life      It  was  they  who  had  the  power  to  make  then 

287 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

what  they  should  be.  Through  them  he  was  to  find 
stimulus  for  the  emotions  that  should  govern  all  he 
did.  Still  was  he  for  molding,  still  the  plastic  spirit 
needing  the  highest  emotion  of  the  highest  ideal  to  give 
it  noblest  purpose. 

And  here,  as  ever,  his  mother  was  she  who  in  that 
malleable  phase  set  first  the  welfare  of  his  soul.  No 
conception  or  consideration  of  inheritance  was  there 
to  hinder  her.  It  was  not  to  a  man  fit  for  the  world 
she  saw  him  grow,  but  to  equip  him  for  life  she  gave 
the  essence  of  her  being. 

This  from  the  very  first,  before  ever  that  cry  of  his 
lifted  above  the  wind  in  the  elm  trees,  had  been  her 
sure  and  certain  purpose.  No  possessions  in  life  there 
were  but  him  to  limit  the  perspective  of  her  vision ;  and 
such  a  possession  was  he  as  for  whom,  if  need  be,  she 
could  make  absolute  sacrifice. 

Already  she  had  done  so.  Already  once  she  had 
given  her  heart  for  breaking  to  let  him  go.  Fear  there 
was  in  her  now  she  had  not  had  courage  enough  in  her 
purpose.  Fear  there  was  she  had  not  trusted  enough 
to  faith. 

Would  he  have  lived  to  rebuke  her  for  the  oppor- 
tunity she  had  thrown  away  ?  Might  he  not  have  lived, 
as  she  would  have  taught  him,  to  thank  her  for  the 
sense  of  life  she  had  given  him  in  exchange  for  the 
world  that  now  was  at  his  feet  ? 

Once  she  had  given  her  heart  for  breaking  and  it  had 
healed  in  the  patient  endurance  of  her  soul.  She  had 
no  thought  to  give  it  here.  Here  in  that  moment  as 

288 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

they  met  upon  the  platform,  she  knew  she  must  fight  to 
the  last.  Men  might  make  the  world,  but  it  was  women 
who  created  life.  Between  those  two  women,  laughing 
like  a  schoolboy,  he  stood  for  his  life  to  be  shaped  and 
fashioned  and  all  that  appeared  upon  the  surface  of 
things  to  him  was  that  the  world  was  a  happy  place. 


VII 

IT  would  be  a  false  conception  of  Mary  Throg- 
morton  in  this  phase  of  her  being  to  picture  her 
as  consenting  to  the  common  wiles  of  women. 

She  fought  her  battle  for  her  John  with  weapons  the 
stress  of  circumstances  made  ready  for  her  hand.  All 
men  have  done  the  same.  Guile  there  may  seem  to 
have  been  in  her,  but  none  greater  than  that  which  in 
some  one  form  or  another  is  called  forth  from  all 
human  nature  in  any  conflict.  The  smiles  with  which 
Dorothy  greeted  her  had  to  be  met  with  smiles ;  the 
delicate  word  she  so  despised  demanded  no  other  than 
the  delicate  word  from  her.  To  have  used  blunter, 
heavier  weapons  than  these  might  indeed  have  routed 
her  opponent,  yet  to  have  won  in  such  a  case  would 
have  been  worse  than  loss. 

Here  was  war  in  the  true  sense  as  she  knew  it; 
not  the  flinging  of  a  greater  force  against  a  lesser,  win- 
ning on  the  field  of  battle  and  in  the  very  boastful  pride 
of  victory,  losing  in  the  field  of  life.  It  was  not  to 
confound  her  enemy  she  sought  but  to  win  that  issue 
upon  which  the  full  justice  of  her  hope  was  set.  Not 
for  herself  to  gain  or  keep  it  had  she  made  her  heart 
of  tempered  steel,  but  for  another  to  find  the  liberty 
his  soul  had  need  of. 

It  was  for  John  she  fought  and  none  of  his  pity 
290 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

dared  she  awaken  for  his  Dorothy,  well  knowing  that 
though  by  Nature  victors  themselves,  there  was  little 
love  in  the  hearts  of  men  for  a  triumphant  woman. 

If  this  was  guile,  it  was  such  as  life  demanded  of  her 
then.  With  all  nobility  of  character  to  criticize  her- 
self, she  did  not  pause  here  for  sentiment.  If  the 
weapons  she  must  use  were  not  to  her  liking,  necessity 
yet  fitted  them  readily  to  her  hold. 

Never  had  John  seen  his  mother  so  gentle  or  so  kind. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  conscious  mind  he  appreciated 
the  pain  of  jealousy  he  knew  must  be  pricking  at  her 
heart.  For  in  some  sense  it  was  her  defeat  it  seemed 
to  him  he  witnessed ;  a  brave  defeat  with  head  high  in 
pride  and  eyes  that  sadness  touched  but  left  no  tears. 
He  came  to  realize  the  ache  of  loneliness  she  felt  when- 
ever in  the  fields,  about  the  farm  or  through  the  woods 
he  went  with  Dorothy  alone.  After  a  few  days,  it  was 
he,  unprompted,  who  asked  her  to  accompany  them, 
and  Mary  whose  wisdom  it  was  so  readily  to  find  some 
duty  about  the  house  or  with  the  cows  that  prevented 
her  acceptance. 

Gradually  she  permitted  him  to  come  upon  suspicion 
that  these  excuses  were  often  invented.  Gradually  she 
brought  him  to  consciousness  of  the  sacrifice  she  made. 
He  found  he  learnt  it  with  effort  or  intent  and  appre- 
ciated in  himself  the  breadth  of  vision  his  heart  had 
come  by. 

"  Did  you  realize,"  he  said  one  day  to  Dorothy  in 
the  woods,  "  that  the  Mater  just  invented  that  excuse 
not  to  come  with  us  ?  " 

291 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

She  shook  her  head. 

He  found  amaze  at  that. 

"  She  did,"  said  he.  "  Those  cow  stalls  don't  want 
whitewashing  again.  They're  a  bit  ramshackle  com- 
pared with  ours  at  Wenlock  Hall,  but  they're  as  clean 
as  a  new  pin.  Old  Peverell  told  me  the  inspector  said 
they'd  never  been  so  clean  before.  She  invented  it." 

Suddenly  he  took  Dorothy's  arm. 

"  Do  you  know  you've  done  that  for  me?  "  he  whis- 
pered. 

"Done  what?" 

"  Given  me  a  wider  view  of  things,  taught  me  to 
realize  other  people's  feelings  as  well  as  my  own, 
shown  me  what  she  suffers  when  she  sees  me  go  off  to 
Wenlock,  what  she  suffers  when  I  bring  you  down  here 
and  go  out  with  you  every  day,  leaving  her  alone." 

"But  why  should  she  suffer?"  asked  Dorothy. 
"  She's  your  mother,  she  must  love  you.  She  must 
want  to  see  you  happy.  She  must  be  glad  you're  going 
to  come  into  that  beautiful  place  in  Somersetshire." 

He  fell  to  silence,  having  no  answer  to  that,  yet  feel- 
ing she  somehow  had  not  understood  what  he  had 
meant. 

That  night  he  came  to  Mary's  room  to  say  good- 
night before  he  went  down  to  the  bedroom  he  had  taken 
at  the  Crooked  Billet.  Always  hitherto  it  had  been  a 
knock  upon  the  door,  a  call  of  good-night  and  then  her 
listening  to  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  down  the  thinly 
carpeted  stairs.  This  time  he  asked  if  he  might  come 
in. 

292 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

By  the  light  of  her  candle,  Mary  was  lying  in  her 
bed  reading  one  of  the  books  from  a  little  shelf  at  her 
bedside.  More  than  she  knew,  this  request  of  his 
startled  yet  spurred  her  no  less  to  the  swift  expedi- 
ency of  what  she  must  do. 

"  Just  one  moment,"  she  called  back,  steadying  the 
note  in  her  voice.  Quickly  then  she  slipped  from  her 
bed,  arranging  her  hair  as  best  she  could  before  the 
mirror;  with  a  fever  almost  of  speed,  changing  her 
night  attire  for  a  garment  the  best  she  had,  fresh  with 
the  scent  of  the  lavender  she  kept  with  all  her  things. 
Not  once  did  her  ringers  fumble  in  their  haste.  An- 
other moment  she  was  back  in  bed  again,  her  book 
put  back  upon  the  shelf  and  another,  one  of  those 
Nature  books  she  used  to  read  when  he  was  a  little  boy, 
taken  in  its  place. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said  and,  because  her  voice  was  so 
low  with  her  control  of  eagerness,  she  had  to  repeat 
her  summons. 

It  was  as  the  door  opened  and  he  entered  that  she 
felt  like  a  mistress  receiving  her  lover.  Her  heart  was 
beating  in  her  throat.  Even  John  found  her  eyes  more 
bright  than  he  had  ever  seen  them  before. 

All  love  of  women  in  that  moment  she  knew  was 
the  same.  For  sons  or  lovers,  if  it  were  their  hearts 
beat  too  high  for  the  material  judgments  in  a  material 
world,  what  did  that  matter  if  so  high  they  beat  as  to 
lift  the  hearts  of  men  to  nobler  than  material  things? 
This,  she  realized  it,  was  her  function;  this  the  power 
so  many  women  were  denied,  having  no  vision  of  it  in 

293 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

themselves  because  men  did  not  grant  it  license  in  their 
needs. 

Not  to  give  him  possession  as  a  lover  did  she  admit 
him  then,  but  in  the  sacrifice  of  her  love  and  of  herself 
to  lift  him  through  emotion  to  the  most  spiritual  con- 
ceptions of  life  that  were  eternal. 

Never  in  all  that  relationship  between  herself  and 
John  had  she  felt  the  moment  so  surely  placed  within 
her  hands  as  then. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  so  gently  in  her  voice  that 
she  could  have  laughed  aloud  at  her  own  self-posses- 
sion. 

"  Just  came  in  to  say  good-night,"  said  he  with  an 
attempt  at  ease,  and  came  across  to  the  bed  and  leant 
over  it  to  kiss  her  cheek,  uplifted  to  meet  his,  and  found 
that  clean  scent  of  lavender  in  his  nostrils  when,  before 
he  had  really  learnt  his  purpose,  he  sat  down  upon  the 
bed  at  her  side  and  remained  there,  gazing  into  her  eyes. 

"  What  are  you  reading  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  turned  the  book  round  for  him  to  see,  making 
no  comment;  allowing  the  memories  of  childhood  to 
waken  in  him  of  their  own  volition. 

He  shut  the  book  up,  contriving  to  let  his  hand  find 
hers  as  she  contrived  to  let  it  stay  there  without  seem- 
ing of  intent. 

"  What  is  it,  John  ?  "  she  whispered  again. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Nothing  except  just  what  I  said.  I  wanted  to  say 
good-night."  Yet  he  still  lingered ;  still,  without  keep- 
ing it,  his  hand  remained  in  hers. 

294 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

For  some  while  he  stayed  there,  sitting  on  her  bed, 
saying  nothing,  playing  only  with  his  fingers  that  held 
her  hand.  With  a  supreme  patience  she  waited  in  si- 
lence, knowing  no  words  were  needed  there,  her  heart 
throbbing  with  an  expectant  pulse  that  rose  to  riot  as 
suddenly  he  slipped  on  to  his  knees  on  the  floor  and 
leant  his  head  against  her  breast. 

"  I  want  her,  Mater,"  he  whispered.  "  Haven't  you 
guessed  that  ?  I'm  terribly  in  love." 

Had  she  guessed  that?  Indeed!  But  had  she  ever 
dreamt  or  hoped  for  this,  that  his  first  love-making 
would  be  through  her?  This  was  the  first  love  scene, 
the  first  passion  in  the  drama  of  his  life  and  in  awe  of 
what  it  was,  he  had  chosen  her  to  play  it  with. 

Emotions  such  as  were  triumphant  in  Mary  Throg- 
morton  then  cannot  easily  be  captured.  Here  in  cer- 
tain fact  was  the  first  hour  of  love  her  heart  had  surely 
known ;  an  hour,  albeit  not  her  own,  which  for  the  rest 
of  her  life  was  to  remain  with  its  burning  embers  in 
her  memory. 

With  deep  breaths  she  lay  for  a  moment  still,  hold- 
ing him  in  her  arms. 

"  Haven't  you  told  her,  John?  "  she  asked  presently. 

He  shook  his  head  against  her  breast. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  can't  just  tell  her  I  love  her.  It's 
more  than  that.  She  wouldn't  understand.  If  she 
did,  she  might  hate  me  for  it." 

It  might  have  been  youth  and  the  utter  lack  of  his 
experience.  He  was  only  just  eighteen.  But  Mary 

295 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

found  in  it  more  than  that.  In  the  first  great  emotion 
in  his  life,  when  he  was  stirred  so  deep  as  to  touch 
those  very  first  impressions  she  had  given  him  in  his 
childhood,  he  was  setting  on  one  side  himself  and  the 
demands  that  Nature  made  on  him. 

How  little  his  Dorothy  would  appreciate  that,  Mary 
had  made  certain  estimate  the  first  moment  they  had 
met.  No  awe  of  love  was  there  in  her;  no  vision  his 
need  of  her  could  ever  destroy.  She,  with  the  many 
others,  was  amongst  those  women  who,  bowing  herself 
to  the  possessive  passions  of  men,  would  sell  her  soul  in 
slavery  to  share  them  if  she  could. 

Whatever  of  her  training  it  was  they  had  bereft  him 
of  at  Wenlock,  however  out  of  the  true  line  they  had 
bent  that  green  bough  her  hands  had  fashioned,  still  in 
the  vital  elements  of  his  being,  he  sought  the  clear  light 
above  the  forest  trees  about  him.  In  this  swift  rush 
of  love,  a  storm  that  beat  and  shook  him  with  the  force 
of  it,  some  spiritual  impulse  still  remained.  He  felt 
his  Dorothy  was  some  sacred  thing,  too  sweet  to  touch 
with  hands  all  fierce  as  his. 

How  long  would  that  remain  with  him?  In  the 
materialism  of  his  new  environment  would  they  let 
him  keep  it  for  long?  Another  day  and  drawn  by  the 
shrilling  call  of  Nature  into  the  arms  of  Dorothy, 
might  he  not  lose  it  even  so  soon  as  that  ? 

He  did  not  know  how  true  he  spoke  when  he  had 
said  she  would  not  understand.  A  product  of  the  laws 
of  man  she  was,  eager  and  passionate  to  submit,  need- 
ing that  trampling  spirit  of  possession  to  give  her  sense 

296 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

of  life,  caring  little  how  soon  love  trod  itself  into  the 
habit  of  familiar  touch. 

No  emotion  of  ideals  would  she  have  with  which 
to  set  her  children  forth  upon  their  journeys.  Into 
an  old  and  tired  world  they  would  be  ushered  with 
grudging  of  the  pain  they  brought  and  fretting  com- 
plaint of  ugly  circumstance.  Consequences  of  passion 
they  would  be,  no  more,  with  nothing  but  the  magic  of 
youth  to  give  them  laughter  in  their  playgrounds. 

So  well  did  Mary  know  that  night  as  he  lay  there 
against  her  breast,  John  would  not  keep  his  spirit  long 
untouched  when  other  arms  than  hers  had  held  him. 
Too  soon  had  they  taken  her  from  him.  Too  soon,  in 
that  moment's  want  of  faith,  had  she  let  him  go.  Pos- 
session of  the  earth  already  had  brought  him  scorn  of 
it.  Again  and  again  had  she  seen  that  in  the  change 
of  his  mind  towards  their  simple  life  at  Yarningdale. 

The  earth  she  would  have  had  him  labor  in,  was 
such  as  now  would  soil  his  hands.  It  was  enjoyment 
he  sought,  she  knew  it  well,  not  life.  With  that  poison 
of  inheritance  they  had  instilled  into  his  blood,  fast  he 
was  becoming  an  echo,  not  a  voice.  The  message  of 
all  ideals  was  being  stilled  to  silence  in  him.  They 
were  teaching  him  to  say  what  the  Liddiards  had  said 
one  generation  upon  another  — gain  and  keep,  gain 
and  keep  —  it  would  be  folly  to  give  away. 

Only  in  this,  this  love  that  stirred  him  to  the  very 
essence  of  his  being,  was  he  recalling  the  years  of  emo- 
tion she  had  given  to  the  fashioning  of  his  soul, 
for  that  moment  as  he  lay  in  her  arms,  he  was  the  man 

297 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

her  heart  had  meant  to  make  him,  awed  by  love,  made 
timorous  almost  by  the  power  of  his  passion. 

But  how  long  would  it  survive  its  contact  with  that 
casual  materialism  his  Dorothy  would  blend  it  with? 
How  soon  before  she  made  his  love  that  habit  of  the 
sexes  which  bore  no  more  than  drifting  consequences 
upon  its  stream  ? 

Neither  long  would  it  be,  nor  had  she  power  now  to 
intervene.  Clasping  her  arm  more  tightly  round  him, 
already  she  felt  him  slipping  from  her,  the  more  be- 
cause in  that  brief  moment  he  was  so  much  her  own. 

"  My  dearest,  need  you  tell  her  yet  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I 
know  you  feel  a  man,  but  you're  still  so  young.  You're 
only  eighteen,  you  couldn't  marry  yet.  Liddiard 
wouldn't  want  you  to  marry.  Need  you  tell  her  yet?  " 

"  I  must,"  he  muttered.  "  Not  for  a  little  while  yet 
perhaps.  I've  told  you.  That  was  a  help.  I  don't 
feel  so  much  of  a  brute  as  I  did.  But  sooner  or  later  I 
shall  have  to.  I  can't  help  being  young  and  I'm  not 
inventing  what  I  feel.  Other  chaps  feel  it  too,  quite 
decent  fellows,  but  somehow  or  other  I  can't  do  what 
they  do." 

"What  do  they  do?" 

Frankly  she  would  have  admitted  that  was  curiosity, 
but  curious  only  was  she  to  know  what  he  did  not  do 
rather  than  what  they  did. 

"What  do  they  do,  John?"  she  repeated  as  he  lay 
there,  silent. 

"  Oh,  they  go  up  to  London  when  they  get  the  chance. 
There  are  women,  you  wouldn't  understand  that,  Mater. 

298 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

Probably  you've  never  known  there  were  women  like 
that.  How  could  you  have  known  down  here?  My 
God !  Fancy  one  of  those  women  in  the  fields !  She'd 
drop  down  in  the  grass  and  she'd  hide  her  face.  Any- 
how in  streets  they  keep  their  heads  up.  They  look 
at  you  in  the  streets." 

"  And  you  couldn't  do  that,  John?  " 

"  No  —  I  tried.  I  went  up  to  London  once.  We 
went  to  a  night-club.  All  sorts  of  them  were  dancing 
there.  I  just  couldn't,  that's  all.  The  fellow  I  was 
with,  he  went  away  with  one  of  them.  I  envied  him 
and  I  hated  him.  I  don't  know  what  I  felt.  I 
couldn't.  It  didn't  make  me  feel  sick  of  it  all.  I  don't 
think  I  felt  afraid.  You  kept  on  coming  into  my  mind, 
but  just  you  wouldn't  have  stopped  me  if  I'd  really 
wanted  to.  I  did  want  to.  I  had  wanted  to.  That's 
what  we  meant  to  do.  But  when  I  got  there  to  that 
place,  and  one  of  those  women  kissed  me,  I  felt  there 
was  something  else  I  wanted  more.  I  think  I  nearly 
went  mad  that  night.  I  had  a  little  bed  in  a  stuffy 
little  room  in  a  poky  little  hotel.  I  couldn't  sleep.  I 
never  slept  a  wink.  I  nearly  went  mad  calling  myself 
a  fool  for  not  doing  what  I'd  wanted  to  do.  There 
I'd  have  done  it.  Then  I  didn't  care  what  I  did.  But 
it  was  too  late  then.  I'd  lost  my  chance.  I  was  sorry 
I'd  lost  it." 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her. 

"I'm  not  sorry  now,  Mater.  I  wasn't  sorry  for 
long.  Aren't  men  beasts  ?" 

"My  dear  —  my  dear,"  she  whispered.  "If  they 
299 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

were  all  like  you,  what  a  world  love  could  make  for  us 
to  live  in.  Oh,  keep  it  all,  my  dear.  Never  be  sorry. 
It  isn't  the  right  or  the  wrong  of  it,  John.  It's  the  pity 
of  it.  If  women  had  men  like  you  to  love  them,  think 
what  their  children  would  be !  Don't  tell  her  yet,  John. 
Wait  a  little  longer  if  you  can." 

"  I  can't !  "  he  moaned.  "  I  can't  wait.  She  knows 
I  care  for  her.  I'm  sure  she  does.  I  must  tell  her 
everything." 

If  only  it  had  been  Lucy  he  had  shrunk  from  telling, 
then  fear  would  have  met  with  fear  and  mingled  into 
love.  It  was  not  fear  he  would  meet  with  in  Dorothy. 
Too  wise  perhaps  she  might  be  to  laugh  at  his  timor- 
ousness,  but  swift  enough  would  she  turn  it  to  the 
passion  to  possess. 

That  night  as  John  lay  in  Mary's  arms,  there  re- 
posed with  simple  state  in  the  Government  House  at 
Sarajevo,  the  two  dead  bodies  of  a  man  and  a  woman 
who  had  found  rest  in  the  shadow  of  the  greatest  tur- 
moil the  world  had  ever  known,  which  through  the 
minds  of  millions  in  central  Europe  were  ringing  the 
words  — 

"  The  great  questions  are  to  be  settled  —  not  by 
speeches  and  majority  resolutions,  but  by  blood  and 
iron." 


VIII 

JOHN  waited  a  little  as  he  had  said  he  would. 
Two  days  later,  keeping  his  silence,  he  returned 
to  Oxford.  In  her  first  encounter  with  Mary, 
Dorothy  knew  that  she  had  lost.  She  was  no  equal, 
she  realized  it,  to  that  serene  and  quiet  woman  who 
gave  her  smile  for  smile  and  in  whose  eyes  the  smile 
still  lingered  when  in  her  own  it  had  faded  away. 

It  was  not  before  the  latter  end  of  July  that  the  first 
whisper  of  war  came  to  Yarningdale.  Conflagrations 
might  burst  forth  in  Europe;  the  world  might  be  set 
alight.  It  mattered  little  to  them  at  Yarningdale  farm. 
Whatever  might  happen,  the  cows  had  still  to  be  milked, 
the  crops  to  be  gathered,  the  stacks  to  be  built.  How 
did  it  effect  them  what  an  Emperor  might  say,  or  a 
little  gathering  of  men  elect  to  do?  They  could  not 
stop  the  wheat  from  ripening.  They  could  not  stop 
the  earth  from  giving  back  a  thousandfold  that  which 
man  had  given  to  the  earth. 

"War!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Peverell.  "Men  beant 
such  fools  as  that!  Tis  all  a  lot  of  talk  to  make  the 
likes  of  us  think  mighty  fine  of  them  that  says  they 
stopped  it.  We'm  have  taxes  to  pay  and  if  those  what 
are  in  the  Government  doant  make  a  noise  about  some- 
thing, we  might  begin  awonderin'  what  they  did  to 

earn  'em." 

301 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

It  was  all  very  well  to  talk  like  that  and  likely  enough 
it  sounded  in  their  parlor  kitchen  at  Yarningdale.  But 
there  were  other  thoughts  than  these  in  Mary's  mind 
and  not  all  the  confident  beliefs  of  peace  amongst 
those  who  had  nothing  to  gain  and  all  to  lose,  could 
shake  her  from  them. 

When  once  it  had  become  a  daily  topic  of  speculation 
and  newspapers  in  Yarningdale  were  being  read  every 
morning,  she  formed  her  own  opinions  as  to  what 
would  happen  out  of  the  subconscious  impulses  of  her 
mind. 

Deep  in  her  heart,  she  knew  there  would  be  war,  a 
mighty  war,  a  devastating  war.  Something  the  spirit 
of  her  being  had  sense  of  revealed  to  her  that  this  was 
the  inevitable  fruit  of  that  tree  of  civilization  men  had 
trained  to  the  hour  of  bearing.  This  was  its  season. 
War  was  its  yield.  With  blood  and  iron  the  crop  of 
men's  lives  must  be  gathered.  Inevitably  must  the  pos- 
sessive passion  turn  upon  itself  and  rend  the  very 
structure  it  had  made.  The  homes  that  had  been  built 
with  greed,  by  greed  must  be  destroyed.  This,  as  they 
had  made  it,  was  the  everlasting  cycle  Nature  demanded 
of  life.  Energy  must  be  consumed  to  give  out  energy. 
To  inherit  and  possess  was  not  enough.  It  was  no 
more  than  weeds  accumulating  and  clogging  in  the 
mill-wheel.  If  man  had  no  ambition  other  than  to 
possess;  if  in  his  spirit  it  was  not  the  emotion  of  the 
earth  to  give,  then  the  great  plow  of  war  must  drive  its 
furrow  through  the  lives  of  all  of  them. 

In  some  untraceable   fashion,   Mary   felt  that  the 
302 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

whole  of  her  life  had  been  building  up  to  this.  Some- 
how it  seemed  the  consummation  of  all  she  had  tried 
and  failed  to  do.  At  the  supreme  moment  of  her  life, 
she  had  been  lacking  in  faith  of  her  ideals.  She  had 
lost  the  clear  sight  of  her  vision.  The  whole  world 
had  done  that  and  now  it  was  faced  with  the  stem 
justice  of  retribution. 

There  must  be  war.  She  knew  there  must.  Men 
and  women,  all  of  them  had  failed.  What  could  there 
be  but  the  devastating  horror  of  war  to  cleanse  the  evil 
and  rid  of  the  folly  of  weeds  the  idle  fallows  of  their 
lives  ? 

"  Well,  if  it  is  to  be  war,"  said  the  Vicar  one  day, 
having  tea  with  Mary  and  Mrs.  Peverell  in  the  parlor 
kitchen,  "  Germany's  not  the  nation  of  shrewd  men 
we've  thought  her.  If  she  insists  upon  it,"  he  added, 
his  spirit  rising  from  meekness  with  a  glitter  in  his  eye, 
"  she'll  have  forgotten  we're  the  richest  nation  in  the 
world.  On  the  British  possessions  the  sun  never  sets. 
She'll  have  forgotten  to  take  that  into  account." 

Every  man  was  talking  in  this  fashion.  She  read 
the  papers.  It  was  there  as  well.  Long  articles  ap* 
peared  describing  the  wealth  of  the  German  colonies 
and  what  their  acquisition  would  mean  to  England  if 
she  were  victorious  on  the  sea.  Extracts  were  printed 
from  the  German  papers  exposing  her  lust  and  greed 
because,  with  envious  eyes  upon  the  British  Colonies 
she  was  already  counting  the  spoils  of  victory. 

There  in  the  quiet  and  the  seclusion  at  Yarningdale, 
Mary  with  many  another  woman  those  days,  not  con- 

303 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

scious  enough  of  vision  to  speak  their  thoughts,  saw 
the  world  gone  mad  in  its  passion  to  possess. 

It  seemed  to  matter  little  to  her  at  whose  door  the 
iniquity  of  lighting  the  firebrand  lay.  War  had  been 
inevitable  whoever  had  declared  it.  The  cry  of  broken 
treaties  and  sullied  honor  stirred  but  little  in  her  heart 
as  she  heard  it.  What  mattered  it  if  a  man  was  true 
to  his  word  when  all  through  the  years  he  had  been 
false  to  the  very  earth  he  dwelt  on? 

That  cry  of  sullied  honor  through  the  land  was  as 
unreal  to  her  as  was  the  cry  of  sullied  virtue  that  ever 
had  conscripted  women  to  the  needs  of  men.  The 
principles  of  possession  could  never  be  established 
with  honor,  the  functions  of  life  could  never  be  cir- 
cumscribed by  virtue.  It  was  not  honorable  to  gain 
and  keep.  It  was  not  virtuous  to  waste  and  wither. 

War  was  inevitable.  By  the  limitations  of  their  own 
vision  men  had  made  it  so.  There  was  horror  but  no 
revolt  in  her  mind  when,  on  the  morning  of  that  fourth 
of  August,  she  read  the  text  of  the  British  Ultimatum. 

"  They  must  give  back  now,"  she  muttered  to  her- 
self as  she  stood  by  her  dressing  table  gazing  down  at 
a  photograph  of  John  in  its  frame.  "  They  must  all 
give  back,  sons,  homes  —  everything.  They've  kept 
too  long.  It  had  to  come." 

A  few  days  passed  and  then  three  letters  came  for 
her,  one  swift  upon  another.  Each  one  as  she  re- 
ceived it,  so  certain  had  her  subconscious  knowledge 
been,  she  read  almost  without  emotion.  The  announce- 
ment of  war  had  not  staggered  her.  She  felt  the  ache 

304 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

of  pain,  as  when  the  barren  cows  were  driven  out  of 
the  farmyard  to  go  to  the  market,  but  since  she  had 
been  at  Yarningdale,  knew  well  enough  the  unerring 
and  merciless  power  of  retribution  in  Nature  upon 
those  who  clogged  the  mill-wheel  of  life,  who  brokd 
the  impetus  of  its  ceaseless  revolutions  whereby  no 
speed  was  left  to  fling  off  the  water  drops  of  created 
energy. 

Each  letter  as  she  received  it,  she  divined  its  con- 
tents. The  first  was  from  John. 

"  DEAR  OLD  MATER  — " 

She  heard  the  ring  of  vitality  in  that. 

"  They're  all  going  from  here.  If  I  cock  on  a  year  or 
two,  they'll  take  me.  I  sort  of  know  you'd  like  me  to. 
Do  you  know  why  ?  Do  you  remember  once  my  asking 
you  something  about  a  couple  of  moles  the  hay  knives  had 
chopped?  I  was  thinking  of  it  yesterday,  I  don't  know 
why,  and  that  made  me  realize  you'd  understand.  Do 
you  remember  what  you  said  about  Death,  that  sometimes 
it  was  just  a  gift  when  things  were  worth  while?  Well 
—  good  Lord  !  It's  worth  while  now,  not  that  the  blight- 
ers are  going  to  kill  me.  I've  got  as  much  chance  as  any 
one  of  getting  through.  But  you  are  glad  I'm  going, 
aren't  you  ?  You're  not  going  to  try  to  stop  me.  They 
say  the  Army's  big  enough  with  the  French  on  one  side 
and  the  Russians  on  the  other  to  knock  Germany  into  a 
cocked  hat  in  three  months.  But  I  must  get  out  and 
have  one  pot  at  'em." 

All  this  she  had  divined  as  her  fingers  tore  open  the 
envelope,  but  never  had  she  dared  to  hope  that  the 

305 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

impulse  of  it  would  have  come  from  his  memory  of 
what  she  had  said  to  him  those  days  when  he  was  in 
the  fashioning  of  her  hands.  This,  she  had  made  him. 
She  clutched  the  letter  in  her  hands  and  held  it  against 
her  face  and  thanked  God  she  had  not  wholly  failed. 
The  next  two  letters  came  together  by  the  same  post 
on  the  following  day.  She  knew  their  handwriting. 
No  envelope  could  have  concealed  their  contents  from 
her  eyes.  Liddiard's  she  opened  first. 

"Mv  DEAR  MARY—" 

"  I  suppose  John  has  written  to  you  of  this  preposterous 
suggestion  of  his  that  he  should  volunteer,  and  I  know 
you  will  do  all  you  can  to  prevent  it.  To  begin  with  he 
is  not  of  age.  He  will  have  to  lie  about  it  before  they 
can  accept  him  and,  secondly,  War  is  a  job  for  soldiers 
and  the  Army  is  there  to  see  it  through.  If  they  rush 
him  out  without  proper  training  as  I  hear  it  is  likely  they 
may  do,  it's  unfair  on  him ;  it's  unfair  on  all  of  us.  We've 
paid  for  our  Army  as  a  nation  and  now  it's  got  its  work 
to  do.  Calling  for  recruits  now  as  they  did  in  the  South 
African  war  is  not  fair  to  the  country.  These  young 
boys  will  go  because  they're  hysterical  with  excitement  for 
adventure,  but  where  will  the  country  be  if  they  don't  come 
back? 

"  I  rely  on  you,  my  dear  Mary,  to  do  all  you  can  to  dis- 
suade him  from  this  mad  project  of  his.  With  all  the 
knowledge  that  one  day  he  is  to  be  master  of  Wenlock,  I 
know  he  still  looks  reliantly  towards  you  in  that  little 
farmhouse.  Do  all  you  can,  my  dear.  We  cannot  lose 
him,  neither  you  nor  I." 

With  a  hard  line  about  her  lips  which,  had  she  seen 
it,  would  have  reminded  her  of  her  sister  Jane,  she 

306 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

laid  the  letter  down  and  picked  up  that  from  Dorothy. 

"  Please  —  please  don't  let  him  go,"  it  cried  out  from 
the  written  page  to  her.  "  I  can't  stop  him.  I've  tried. 
He  won't  listen  to  me.  I  learnt  those  few  days  while  I 
stayed  at  Yarningdale  how  he  will  listen  to  you.  He  be- 
longs to  me.  He  told  me  so.  Please  —  please  don't  let 
him  go." 

She  picked  up  the  other  letter  and  stood  looking  at 
them  together,  side  by  side,  then  dropped  them  from 
her  hand  and  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress  drew  out 
the  slip  of  paper  John  had  written  on  and  pressed  it 
once  more  against  her  cheek. 

Downstairs  in  the  parlor  kitchen  with  the  pen  and 
ink  that  Mr.  Peverell  used  when  he  kept  his  farm  ac- 
counts, Mary  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Liddiard. 

"  If  I  could  do  everything,  I  would  do  nothing,"  she 
wrote.  "  This  is  what  I  made  him.  I  would  not  un- 
make him  if  I  could.  You  must  give.  I  must  give.  We 
must  all  give  now.  We've  kept  too  long.  Dont  you 
know  what  this  war  is  ?  It's  not  England  fighting  for  her 
rights  or  Germany  for  her  needs.  It's  Nature  revolting 
against  man.  You've  made  your  chapels  and  your  tithe 
barns  for  yourselves.  The  earth  is  going  to  shake  them 
into  the  dust  again.  If  I  could  do  everything,  I  woul 
do  nothing.  He  takes  my  heart  with  him  when  he  goes. 
But  there  is  nothing  I  can  do.  We  must  all  give  now  - 
at  last  —  women  as  well  as  men.  These  things  that  hap- 
pen now  —  these  are  the  consequences  of  passion. 


IX 

TO  Mary  Throgmorton,  tending  and  milking 
Mr.  Peverell's  cows  at  Yarningdale  Farm, 
those  first  few  weeks  of  the  Great  War  were 
as  the  resultant  dream  that  shadows  the  apprehensive 
mind. 

Every  morning  after  her  work  was  done,  she  would 
retire  to  her  room  with  her  newspapers,  therein  to  read 
the  countless  conflicting  reports  which  they  contained. 
The  feverish  desire  to  give  active  help  or  be  amongst 
the  first  of  those  personally  to  contribute  to  the  cause 
found  her  calm  and  self-possessed.  She  had  her  work 
to  do.  So  long  as  the  cows  were  there  in  Mr.  Peve- 
rell's meadows,  they  had  to  be  milked.  Her  duty  it 
had  been  for  the  last  eighteen  years  to  milk  them.  Her 
duty  it  seemed  to  her  to  continue. 

From  all  the  villages  round  about  them,  the  young 
men  were  going  up  to  join  the  colors.  Little  proces- 
sions of  them  accompanied  by  their  mothers  and  sweet- 
hearts passed  along  the  roads  to  the  station,  going  to 
the  nearest  recruiting  office.  Most  of  them  had  flowers 
in  their  caps  and  went  singing  on  their  way,  lifting 
their  voices  to  a  cheer  at  sight  of  any  whom  they  passed. 

Whenever  she  met  them,  Mary  cheered  in  fervent 
response ;  but  looking  back  over  her  shoulder  when  they 
had  gone  by,  there  were  tears,  hot  and  stinging  in  her 

308 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

eyes,  so  that  always  their  departure  to  her  was  through 
a  mist.  They  vanished,  nebulous,  like  spirits,  out  of 
her  sight.  She  looked  till  she  could  see  no  longer. 
The  vision  of  them  trembled  as  the  air  trembles  over 
the  scorching  earth  on  a  summer's  day.  She  felt  it  was 
the  last  vision  she  would  ever  have  of  them. 

Only  their  mothers  and  their  sweethearts  came  back, 
little  weeping  groups  of  them,  along  the  same  road. 
Whenever  she  saw  these  approaching  her,  she  would 
break  her  way  into  the  fields  or  the  woods  rather  than 
pass  them  by.  For  more  than  the  boys  themselves 
with  the  high  light  of  a  strange  laughter  in  their  eyes, 
it  was  the  faces  of  the  mothers  as  they  all  went  by  to- 
gether, that  had  dragged,  like  the  warning  pains  of 
child-birth,  at  her  heart. 

Pale  beneath  the  wind-burnt  ruddy  skins  they  were. 
It  was  pallor  of  anger;  anger  of  soul  at  the  senseless 
waste.  The  cry  of  England  for  her  sons  was  loud 
indeed.  In  countless  hearts  the  note  of  it  was  shrill- 
ing without  need  of  proclamation.  These  boys  had 
heard  it  and  heard  no  more.  Their  mothers  had  heard 
it  too.  No  less  had  it  rung  its  cry  in  Mary's  ears. 
But  deeper  and  further-reaching  was  the  hearing  of 
the  women  in  those  early  days  of  war. 

Later,  doubtless,  their  senses  became  almost  numb 
to  the  true  meaning  of  that  voice  flung  far  across  the 
land.  Even  the  vitality  of  despair  grew  still  in  their 
breasts.  The  horrors  of  war  sickened,  choked,  asphyx- 
iated them.  They  gave  their  sons  like  animals  going 
to  the  slaughter  house  with  eyes  that  were  staring  and 

309 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

wide,  and  in  whose  nostrils  the  heavy  smell  of  blood 
had  acted  as  a  soporific  on  the  brain. 

But  at  first,  Mary  had  little  doubt  of  the  look  she 
saw  in  those  mothers'  eyes.  They  were  giving  up,  not 
what  they  had  got,  but  what  they  had  made.  The 
created  thing  they  were  sacrificing;  the  thing  which  in 
love  and  pain  and  energy  of  soul  they  had  offered  out 
of  themselves  to  give  life  to.  There  was  little  of  the 
fervor  of  patriotism  about  them.  To  those  country 
railway  stations  they  marched  with  their  pale  faces, 
their  set  lips,  the  aching  pain  in  their  eyes.  Each  for 
her  son's  sake  smiled  as  he  looked  at  her ;  each  for  her 
son's  sake  smiled  as  she  waved  farewell.  But  on  the 
hollow  mask  she  wore,  that  smile  was  but  a  painted 
thing.  He  looked  to  his  sweetheart  or  he  laughed  to 
his  companions  and  it  died  away. 

Somewhere  in  their  buried  and  inarticulate  con- 
sciousness, those  mothers  knew  that  wrong  was  being 
done  to  them.  Vaguely  they  knew  it  was  man  with  his 
laws  of  force  and  his  passion  of  possession  who  had 
done  that  wrong;  vaguely  they  knew  it,  but  had  no 
clear  vision  in  their  hearts  to  give  them  voice  to  revile. 

Such  an  one  Mary  came  upon,  a  day  when  rain  had 
driven  her  to  take  shelter  and  she  came  back  by  a  foot- 
path across  the  fields.  On  the  smooth  rail  of  a  well- 
worn  stile  the  woman  was  seated,  her  feet  resting  for 
support  on  the  step  below,  her  body  faintly  swinging 
to  and  fro,  not  for  comfort  but  as  though  she  rocked 
sorrow  like  a  suffering  babe  in  her  arms. 

At  sound,  then  sight  of  Mary  who  must  cross  the 
310 


stile  if  she  passed  that  way,  the  woman  sat  erect  and 
took  her  feet  down  from  their  resting-place. 

Once  having  seen  her,  she  looked  no  more  at  Mary  as 
she  approached,  but  set  her  face  outwards  with  a  steady 
gaze  in  her  eyes.  In  an  impetus  of  memory,  Mary 
recognized  her  as  one  of  a  little  band  she  had  seen 
marching  to  the  station  earlier  in  the  day.  She  had 
been  alone  with  her  son.  No  sweetheart  was  there  to 
share  their  parting.  Alone  she  had  bid  farewell  to 
him.  Alone  she  returned. 

Had  there  been  others  with  her,  Mary  might  have, 
turned  back ;  at  least  she  would  have  hurried  by.  Now, 
coming  to  the  stile,  she  stopped. 

"  Have  you  lost  your  way?  "  she  inquired. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Miss." 

"  It  was  only  I  saw  you  coming  by  the  road  this 
morning  and  this  footpath  doesn't  lead  to  Lonesome 

Ford." 

"  We  came  by  the  road  because  all  the  boys  were 
going  that  way.  They  take  it  easier  when  they  go  all 
together.  Seems  they  laugh  in  a  crowd.  What  we 
have  acomin'  back  seems  best  alone." 

Mary  made  gentle  inquiries,  what  recruiting  offi 
her  son  had  gone  to  —  what  regiment  he  hoped  to  join 
—  his  age  — his  trade  — what  other  sons  she  had. 

"  He's  my  only  — "  she  replied  steadily. 

Had  she  broken  into  weeping,   Mary  would  have 
comforted  and  left  her.     Tears  are  their  own  sol* 
and  need  no  company.     But  there  were  no  tears 
She  sat  upon  the  top  rail  of  the  stile,  her  head 

3" 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

above  Mary,  her  features  sharp  and  almost  hard 
against  the  sky,  her  eyes  set  fast  across  the  rolling  fields 
that  dipped  and  lifted,  with  elm-treed  hollows  and  up- 
lands all  spread  gold  with  corn. 

"  I  have  one  only,"  said  Mary  quietly.  "  He's  in 
training  now." 

That  made  them  one,  but  the  calm  voice  of  her  who 
had  spoken  made  the  other  lean  towards  that  unity  for 
dependence.  Impulsively  she  stretched  out  her  hand 
and  straight  and  firmly  Mary  took  it. 

"  I  don't  know  who  you  are,  Ma'am,"  she  said  with 
words  her  emotion  quickened  on  her  lips.  "  I'm  more 
or  less  of  a  stranger  to  these  parts.  You  may  be  a 
grand  lady  for  all  I  know  and  judging  by  your  voice, 
but  the  way  you  spoke  and  all  that's  happening  these 
days,  seems  to  me  we're  all  just  women  now." 

"  All  just  women,"  said  Mary  softly. 

She  responded  eagerly  to  the  gentle  encouragement 
and  went  swiftly  on  as  though  no  interruption  had 
been  made. 

"  What  I  mean,"  she  said,  "  we've  both  just  parted 
from  what's  dearest  to  us  in  life  —  that  makes  us  one. 
You  might  be  a  lord's  lady  and  I  just  one  of  common 
folk  —  no  less,  we're  one.  Something's  happened  to 
us  that's  made  us  look  up  like  and  see  each  other  — 
it's  made  you  put  out  your  hand  to  me  and  what  I  want 
to  know  is  what  it  is  that's  happened,  because  with  all 
these  talks  of  England  in  danger  and  hatred  of  those 
beasts  of  Germans,  there  seems  something  else  and  I 
can't  get  it  right.  I  know,  now  it's  come  to  it,  my 

312 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

son's  got  to  go  out  and  fight.  I  wouldn't  stop  him. 
But  I  don't  think  I'd  have  brought  him  into  the  world 
if  I'd  known.  There  are  some  as  like  fighting.  He 
doesn't.  He  cried  in  my  lap  last  night,  but  not  because 
he  couldn't  make  up  his  mind  to  go.  He  knew  he  was 
going  this  morning,  but  he  cried  in  my  lap  and  I  heard 
him  say,  '  I  know  I  shall  fight  and  hate  and  go  mad 
with  the  rest  of  them  when  it  comes  to  the  time.'  I 
don't  rightly  know  what  he  meant  by  that.  I  hope  he 
does  hate  but  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  it  was  that  he  feared 
most." 

"  Perhaps  he  saw  himself  mad  and  drunk  with 
blood,"  said  Mary.  "  Can't  you  imagine  he'd  loathe 
the  sight  of  that?  Have  you  ever  seen  a  woman  in- 
toxicated with  drink  ?  " 

"  Once  I  did  —  no  —  twice  I  did." 

"  Would  you  like  to  think  of  yourself  like  that?  " 

She  bent  her  head. 

"  You've  made  that  plain,"  she  muttered.  "  I  didn't 
care  asking  him  at  the  time.  Seemed  he  just  wanted  to 
go  talking  on  with  no  questions.  There'll  be  hun- 
dreds like  him,  I  suppose,  thousands  perhaps  and  some 
as  like  fighting.  'Twill  be  an  adventure  to  them,  but 
hell  it'll  be  to  him.  P'r'aps  that's  as  it  must  be.  The 
world's  all  sorts.  But  I  can't  help  thinking  the  world's 
wrong  for  us  women.  Be  they  the  fighting  kind  or 
not,  we  didn't  bring  'em  into  the  world  for  this  wast- 
ing. They  say  that  thousands  of  our  boys  were  lost 
during  that  first  retreat  from  '  Mons '  I  think  they  call 
it.  If  you  saw  the  thousands  of  mothers  they  belong 

313 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

to  all  come  together  in  a  crowd  like  the  boys  marching 
and  they  had  some  one  to  lead  'em,  what  would  they 
do  to  them  as  have  made  this  war?  They'd  tear  them 
limb  from  limb.  That's  what  they'd  do.  I  used  to 
think  the  world  was  a  fair  and  sweet  enough  place 
once.  They  told  us  there,  those  people  up  in  London 
in  the  Government  there  could  be  no  war.  The  papers 
said  it.  Up  to  the  last  they  said  it.  Every  man  said 
it  to  you,  too.  There  can't  be  no  war,  they  said,  not 
a  big  European  war,  they  said,  the  world  'd  stop  still 
in  a  month,  they  said,  there'd  be  no  trade.  Seems  to 
me  men  go  sweating  in  labor  and  toiling  with  work  and 
half  the  time  they  don't  know  what  they're  making." 

Mary  let  her  talk  on.  So  plain  it  was  to  be  seen  that 
it  gave  her  ease;  so  plain  that  this  was  the  accumula- 
tion of  her  thoughts,  flowing  over  from  the  full  vessel 
of  her  heart  that  could  hold  no  more. 

"  What's  all  this,"  she  continued,  "  all  this  they've 
been  saying  about  treaties  and  what  they  call  Inter- 
national Law?  Seems  to  me  we've  let  men  make  the 
world  long  enough.  They've  made  hell  of  it.  How 
could  there  be  peace  with  them  making  all  those  guns 
and  ships  and  weapons  which  was  only  invented  to 
destroy  peace?  I  don't  believe  nothing's  made  to  waste 
in  this  world.  If  you  make  a  thing  it'll  get  itself  used 
somehow  and  if  it  don't  and  goes  to  rust,  then  some- 
thing's wrong  in  the  minds  of  them  as  wasted  their  time 
on  it.  If  my  man  had  told  me  before  we  married  I'd 
got  to  give  him  a  son  as  one  day  would  be  crying  in  my 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

lap  because  he  found  life  horrible,-  do  you  think  I'd 
have  married  him?  No  —  he  told  me  the  little  home 
we  was  going  to  have  and  all  the  things  he'd  give  me 
to  put  in  it  and  how  when  I  was  going  to  have  a  child 
he'd  work  so  hard  as  we  could  afford  to  get  a  girl  in 
to  help.  That's  what  he  told  me  those  evenings  we 
walked  up  and  down  the  lanes  courting,  and  that's  what 
it  seems  to  me  men  in  high  places  who  make  the  Gov- 
ernment have  been  telling  those  thousands  of  mothers 
that  have  their  hearts  broken  now  this  very  hour. 
Men  want  to  get  hold  of  things  in  this  world.  Grasp- 
ing always  they  are.  And  nations  are  like  men,  be- 
cause men  have  had  the  making  of  them.  And  the  na- 
tion that  has  the  most  men  has  the  most  power  to  grasp, 
and  the  more  they  grasp,  the  more  will  others  get 
jealous  of  them,  and  the  more  they  get  jealous,  the 
more  they'll  need  to  fight.  But  who  gives  them  the 
power  they  have?  Who  gives  them  the  sons  they  ask 
for?  And  what  I  want  to  know  is  why  do  we  go  on 
giving  for  them  to  spoil?  " 

Mary  watched  her  as  the  last  rush  of  her  words  lit 
up  her  eyes  to  a  sullen  anger. 

"Countless  women  will  think  like  you,"  she  said 
quietly,  "  when  this  war's  over.  They  won't  listen  any 
more  when  men  tell  them  there's  honor  in  their  slavery 
or  pride  in  the  service  that  they  give.  We  shall  bring 
children  into  the  world  on  our  own  conditions,  not  on 
theirs.  To  our  own  ideals  we  shall  train  them ;  not 
to  the  ideals  of  men.  You're  not  the  first  who's 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

thought  these  things.  I've  thought  them  too  and  hun- 
dreds of  others  are  thinking  them  and  we  shan't  be  the 
last" 

She  stretched  out  her  hand. 

"  There's  a  new  world  to  be  made,"  she  said  with  a 
thrill  in  her  voice.  "  Men  have  had  their  vision.  We 
can't  deny  they've  had  that.  Without  their  vision 
would  they  ever  have  been  able  to  persuade  us  as  they 
have  ?  They've  had  their  vision  while  we've  had  none. 
They've  had  their  vision  and  it's  brought  us  so  far. 
When  women  find  a  vision  of  their  own;  when  once 
they  see  in  a  clear  picture  the  thoughts  that  are  aching 
in  their  hearts  now,  nothing  will  stop  them.  You  see 
and  I  see,  but  we  are  powerless  by  ourselves.  I  know 
just  how  powerless  we  are,  even  to  have  faith  in  our 
own  sight.  I  thought  I  had  faith  once  —  enough  faith 
to  carry  me  right  through  —  but  I  hadn't.  At  the 
crucial  moment  that  faith  failed  me.  I  had  trained  my 
son  so  far  in  the  light  of  the  vision  I  had  and  then  they 
came  and  with  all  the  threats  they  made  of  the  good 
things  he  was  losing  in  life,  my  courage  failed  me.  I 
let  them  have  him  for  their  own  and  little  by  little  I've 
watched  him  drift  away  from  me." 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  added,  coming  to  a  swift  real- 
ization as  she  spoke,  "  do  you  know  I'm  almost  glad 
of  this  War.  He  volunteered  at  once,  though  he's  only 
eighteen.  He  volunteered  against  his  father's  wishes. 
This  war's  going  to  stop  him  drifting.  It's  going  to 
stop  thousands  from  drifting  as  they  were.  They'll 
see  there's  something  wrong  with  the  civilization  they 

316 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

have  built  up,  that  it's  an  earthquake,  a  volcano,  a 
state  of  being  which  any  moment  may  tumble  or  burst 
into  flame  about  their  heads.  For  that,  I'm  not  sorry 
for  the  War.  We  couldn't  have 'shown  men  how 
wrong  they  were  without  it.  It'll  be  to  their  mothers 
they'll  go  —  these  boys  —  when  they  come  back." 

She  took  her  hand  away  and  climbed  over  the  stile. 

"  You'll  have  him  back,"  she  said.  "  One  of  these 
days  you'll  have  his  head  in  your  lap  again." 

For  one  moment  they  looked  in  each  other's  eyes. 
There  was  a  compact  in  that  look.  In  purpose  they  had 
found  sympathy.  Out  of  the  deep  bitterness  of  life 
they  had  found  a  meaning. 

Once,  as  she  walked  away,  Mary  looked  over  her 
shoulder.  The  woman  still  sat  there  on  the  stile,  still 
with  her  features  cut  sharp  in  profile  against  the  sky, 
still  gazing  across  the  elm-treed  hollows  and  the  up- 
lands all  spread  with  gold  of  corn. 

On  Sunday  night,  October  the  fourth,  in  a  little  force 
of  naval  reserves,  John  marched  from  Ostend  to  his 
battle  position  on  the  Nethe. 

Mary  did  not  know  where  he  had  gone.  He  had  not 
known  himself.  In  the  midst  of  his  training,  the  order 
had  come  for  his  departure.  Two  hours  he  had  had 
with  her  at  Yarningdale;  no  more.  All  that  time  he 
had  laughed  and  talked  in  the  highest  spirits.  Con- 
strained to  laugh  with  him,  her  eyes  had  been  bright, 
her  courage  wonderful. 

It  was  not  until  she  drove  back  alone  in  the  spring 
317 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

cart  from  the  station,  that  she  knew  the  brightness  in 
her  eyes  had  sunk  as  in  those  other  women's  eyes  to  the 
sullen  light  of  anger. 

"  Oh  —  the  waste  —  the  senseless  waste  of  it !  "  she 
had  muttered  that  night  as  she  lay  waiting  for  the  relief 
of  sleep. 

The  next  five  days  had  passed  in  silence.  She  went 
about  her  duties  as  usual,  but  none  seeing  her  dared 
speak  about  the  War.  It  was  whispered  only  in  that 
parlor  kitchen;  whispers  that  fell  with  sibilant  noises 
into  silence  whenever  she  came  into  the  room. 

Each  morning,  as  always,  she  took  her  papers  away 
to  her  room  to  read.  Nothing  of  that  which  she 
yearned  to  know  could  they  tell  her.  On  the  ninth  of 
October  Antwerp  had  fallen.  Amongst  all  the  strong- 
holds that  were  crumbling  beneath  the  weight  of  the 
German  guns,  this  meant  nothing  to  her.  She  laid 
the  paper  down  and  went  out  into  the  fields. 

It  was  the  evening  of  three  days  later  when  she  was 
milking  the  cows  in  their  stalls,  that  Mrs.  Peverell 
came,  bringing  her  a  telegram  into  the  shed.  Her 
hands  were  wet  with  milk  as  they  took  it.  They  slipped 
on  the  shiny  envelope  as,  without  hesitation,  she  broke 
it  open. 

When  she  had  read  it,  she  looked  up,  handing  it  in 
silence  to  Mrs.  Peverell,  then  turned  with  the  sense  of 
habit  alone  remaining  in  her  fingers  and  continued 
with  her  milking. 

(2) 
THE   END 


A     000122768     5 


